


Vigil (by BaileyMoyes on LJ)

by Dariuchka



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi, some violence.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-04-13
Updated: 2008-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:54:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 73,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24627352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dariuchka/pseuds/Dariuchka
Summary: In this alternative Middle Earth, Elendil’s line continues to rule Gondor.  The last king, Arathorn, died when his only heir was but two.  Now that Prince Aragorn is eighteen, his mother, Gilraen will give up her place as Regent of Gondor, leaving the Heir in the capable hands of Denethor the Steward.  Before she steps down, the Queen performs one last official act.  She sends word to Lothlorien reminding the Galadrim of their promise to protect the bloodline of Isildur.  The Elves honor the pact by sending a mighty warrior to serve as Vigil to the Heir.
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel/Legolas Greenleaf, Arwen Undómiel/Boromir (Son of Denethor II), Elladan/Elrohir/Faramir
Kudos: 19





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Not mine! The characters and universe is Tolkien's and the story is BaileyMoyes'. I simply wished to preserve their works before they are sucked into the blackhole of internet as time passes. I wish you all the joys in reading them as I had!

An LotR a/u by bailey  
Rated: PG13  
Warning: Some violence.  
Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me.  
Thank you, Jean and Grace  
A/Notes: In this alternative Middle Earth, Elendil’s line continues to rule Gondor. The last king, Arathorn, died when his only heir was but two. Now that Prince Aragorn is eighteen, his mother, Gilraen will give up her place as Regent of Gondor, leaving the Heir in the capable hands of Denethor the Steward. Before she steps down, the Queen performs one last official act. She sends word to Lothlorien reminding the Galadrim of their promise to protect the bloodline of Isildur. The Elves honor the pact by sending a mighty warrior to serve as Vigil to the Heir.  
:::=+=:::o:::=+=:::o:::=+=:::o:::=+=:::  


Faramir looked up from the musty tome and rubbed his eyes. The candles in the lamps had burned low and he realized he’d been straining to read the spidery writing.

Glancing across the table, the Steward’s younger son smiled fondly at the top of his companion’s head. The scant candlelight gilded the Heir’s autumn brown hair, picking splinters of gold from the streaming locks, crowning him prematurely.

The Prince was absorbed in the creaking leather scroll he’d oiled and unrolled so carefully. The cured hide was incised with the simple runes of the Woses, as the ancient Men of the forests were known in Gondor. Faramir could not imagine that the scratchings held any useful information, but knew better than to interrupt.

Aragorn, son of Arathorn, last scion of the bloodline of Isildur and Heir to the throne of Gondor, had prodigious powers of concentration and loved nothing better than research. Whenever the young Man had free time, and it was not often enough, he could reliably be found in the archives of Minas Tirith.

Usually accompanied by his best friend, Faramir, Aragorn would pore over the bound texts, scrolls and ancient tablets in pursuit of knowledge. The folk that surrounded the Heir did not discourage his leisure pastime, but looked at it askance and did not inquire after his progress. Only Faramir appreciated the quarry Aragorn pursued: nothing less than knowledge itself.

Stretching, Faramir rose from his chair and went to stand behind the oblivious Prince of Gondor. The Steward’s son had tried to learn the runic alphabet of the Wild Men, but though Faramir was far from simple, he couldn’t get the trick of the odd patterns. Aragorn, on the other hand, saw their meaning in the same manner that an astronomer picks out constellations from apparently random groupings of stars.

Faramir knew that it was time, and past time, that they were at their baths and dressed for dinner, but he hated to be the one to end the Prince’s happiness. Fetching a deep sigh for the young Man so bound by tradition and responsibility, the Steward’s son did his duty.

“Your Highness,” Faramir said softly, touching Aragorn’s shoulder.

“Hm?”

“We must go,” Faramir said. “Look at the candles.”

Reluctantly, Aragorn raised his head. The soft glow of the day’s last light filtering in through the high, narrow windows illuminated the Heir’s eyes, as vividly blue as a jay’s plumage. Faramir’s heart contracted with a sharp pang for the beauty, nobility and sweetness of his future liege and in sorrow for the cage that confined this rare bird.

“Great Elendil!” Aragorn cursed mildly. “Why did you not tell me?”

“I have it calculated to a fine degree,” Faramir assured the Prince. “We neither of us really need a washing. If we race to your bedchamber, we can be dressed and in the hall before the Steward and your Lady mother enter.”

Aragorn’s lips turned up at the corners. “Then let us make haste,” he said, placing the scroll where it would not come to harm. “Put your book away.”

Faramir closed the clasps of the thick book on the table and when he turned, Aragorn was already out of the door.

“Knave!” the Steward’s youngest son shouted good-naturedly as he took to his heels after his Prince.

::: :::: ::: :::: ::: :::: :::

“I am going, Denethor, and naught you have said or could say will stop me.”

“My Lady,” the Steward began before he was interrupted.

“Do you not understand my speech?” the regal woman asked in tones that verged on anger. “If you will have it more plainly, then listen well, Steward.”

Gilraen, widowed Queen of Gondor, stopped her pacing and faced Denethor. The Steward was a former Knight of Gondor, veteran of many battles, but seldom had he an opponent as worthy as this Lady. Blue fire like sorcerous lightning blazed in the depths of her eyes and her lovely visage was set in lines of implacable determination.

“You know what is in my heart and mind,” Gilraen said in a carefully controlled alto. “You have been my only confessor for the score of years that I have been confined in this pile of stone. I cannot stay here, not even for another year; I wither and soon will fade entirely. I do not wish to end my life in this cold place that chills my spirit as well as my bones. I came here for Arathorn and I stayed for our child, but no longer.”

“Aragorn still needs you,” Denethor said, unwilling, or unable, to give up.

Gilraen bowed her head, the crown of thick auburn braids shining like bronze in the light from the sconces. “I was a child when my father made the match. Arathorn was a Man grown, Captain of the Knights of Gondor for many years, and he was crowned King less than two years after we wed. I married him for the sake of the bloodline, as I am a descendant of Aranarth and he of Isildur, but there was no love between us. This you know well.”

Denethor finally dropped his eyes before her piercing stare.

“You know it better than any,” Gilraen continued in a softer tone. “I never wished for marriage, only for land so that I might raise horses in the manner of the Rohirrim. However, it is seldom that those of our stature may do as we please, or love where we will.”

The Steward nodded his understanding, as she continued.

“I have spent twenty years in this prison of Minas Tirith, and now that Aragorn is eighteen, I give myself parole. I must go. You must stay and guide the Heir, as you have always done. He must some day take up the Scepter of Annuminas. That is the way of it and neither you nor I may change it.”

“The Prince will not understand,” Denethor fired his last bolt. “He will think you are deserting him, and will feel unworthy.”

Gilraen flinched as the missile struck true, piercing her heart. “You will do your best to explain,” she said stiffly. “I will not see him after this night, or I could not bear to go.”

Lifting her chin, the Queen met the Steward’s eyes. Gilraen’s gaze was bright with unshed tears and Denethor bit back the hard words he had prepared to say, choosing others.

“I will do my best,” he said.

“Let us speak of the Vigil as we walk to the dining hall,” she quickly changed the subject.

“I do not think it a wise course, but you know this,” Denethor said, offering her his arm.

“Nonetheless, I do not feel that we should ignore a resource,” she replied. “Is it not better to possess a sword and never go into battle, than to be called upon to fight and not have a weapon to hand?”

“I cannot argue with that logic,” the Steward said. “And if it is your will that I send word Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel, then it shall be done for good or ill.”

“I know what cause you have to distrust Elfkind,” Gilraen said, “but I would not discard a knife out of hand because I did not like the manner of its fashioning.”

“You are pleased to speak in adages this evening,” Denethor observed, ignoring out of long practice how good it felt to touch her. “Nothing will alter the fact that it was Elvish treachery that led to Arathorn’s death.”

Gilraen closed her eyes a moment in a long-suffering expression. “My husband chose to go hunting with the sons of Lord Elrond,” she said. “There was no treachery, only Arathorn’s bull-headed belief that naught could harm him. Elladan and Elrohir advised against going into territory where Orcs were known to prowl.”

“As did I,” Denethor said.

Gilraen nodded. “As did you,” she acknowledged. “And if Arathorn had more wit than brawn, he, rather than his most trusted councilor, would be instructing his son.”

Denethor let the subject drop. “Will you return to Dirhael’s kingdom?” he asked.

“For a time. I would spend some years with my father and mother, but then I will go West through the Gap of Rohan. I have a mind to travel as far as Fornost to gaze upon the Lost Kingdom of Arnor.”

The Steward’s stern face lightened a trifle. “I wish I might go with you,” he said before he thought better of his words.

The Lady’s fingers tightened fractionally on Denethor’s forearm. “Wishes are like gyllenflowers: blooming quickly and dying when picked,” she said lightly. “Ah, here is Aragorn.”

The Heir stood just inside the entry of the smaller dining hall, bowing to his Lady mother. Gilraen laid a hand on the young Man’s tangled hair, which never seemed to make the acquaintance of his brush above once a day. With a bittersweet smile, she stroked the overlong unruly locks before bidding her son sit beside her at table.

The Steward cast a critical eye over the Heir’s garments and those of his younger son before excusing himself. He had a missive of some delicacy to prepare and dispatch.

::: : ::: : ::: : :::

The door warden of King Thranduil’s hall flinched at the sight of the Prince and his companions.

“Your Highness,” he said, bowing briefly. “Do you think it fitting to enter your Sire’s presence in such disarray?”

Legolas glanced down at his Tracker’s tunic, liberally splashed with the black blood of Orcs, and turned to his escorts. Their uniforms were similarly sullied with gore as well as grime, and they exuded a definite reek of wood smoke, musk and rotting meat. The Prince held up the leathern sack he carried and gave it a measuring stare.

The guard watched as a drop of dark liquid gathered at the lowest point of the bag and fell to the polished floor.

“Your Highness, perhaps that would be better left out of doors,” the warden suggested.

“It is a present for my Sire,” Legolas said with what passed for reason in him.

“I do not think …” the guard began.

“As I have always suspected,” the Prince cut him off. “My father chooses his guards for looks rather than wit. Elladan. Elrohir. Do you think my gift to the King inappropriate?”

The Peredhil smiled liked foxes, but made no other reply. They were looking forward to King Thranduil’s face when His Majesty saw the trophy.

“My Sire bade me be ‘more discriminate in my slaughter’,” Legolas said coldly. “I have taken his advice and now I bring him proof of my obedience.”

Unable to stand against the force of the Prince’s personality, the warden stood aside. However, as he did, the guard called out to announce the Trackers’ entrance. With a slight look of annoyance for the loss of the element of surprise, Legolas stalked into the audience chamber and walked purposefully toward the dais.

Elladan and Elrohir flanked the Prince as they moved through the courtiers with all the wild grace of a pack of wolves moving through a herd of deer. And with similar effect. Holding their flowing garments close, the Elves of Thranduil’s court gave way to the uncouth trio.

Thranduil’s beautiful face set in hard lines as his youngest child stopped in front of him.

“Welcome home,” the monarch said, though he did not rise to greet his son.

“It is only a visit, Sire,” Legolas said. “Do not fret that I shall stay for long. I wished to honor this day, the day you first greeted me as I slid from my mother’s womb. I have brought a gift that I hope may delight your heart as I have.”

Thranduil drew a deep breath through his nostrils at this pointed speech. With a flicker of his blue-green eyes, the King signaled his Chamberlain. In moments, the hall was empty save for the Elf on the throne and the three who stood before it.

“Father does not like to air unpleasantness in public,” Legolas said casually to his companions.

“And my son cannot curb his tongue,” Thranduil answered in the same tone. “What devilry do you mean by coming here smirched with foul Orc blood and stinking like Men?”

“I have already told you my purpose,” Legolas said.

Drawing open the sack he carried, the Prince let the contents tumble out. The head of a large Orc bounced on the marble, the iron helmet clanging dully. It came to rest face up, glaring red-eyed at the King. By the facial scarring, Thranduil knew this creature to be of high rank among its kind.

“I give you … Forgive me, Sire, I did not stop to ask its name, but suffice it that this is the last of the line of Azog, ruler of the Orcs of Mordor.”

Thranduil did not blench, but his sculpted lips drew into a thin line. His youngest child was a mad, disrespectful, bloodthirsty warrior with no regard for his royal status, but the King loved him to an irrational extent in inverse proportion to Legolas’s loathing of him. However, Thranduil did not betray his love by word or gesture for fear he would never see his son again.

“You went into the tunnels?” the King exclaimed.

“Only a little way,” Legolas said.

‘Only a little way,’ Thranduil thought bitterly. To get to the tunnels the young Elves would have traversed many leagues of barren wilderness occupied by Orcs and other foul creatures. The way was beset with danger at every step.

“Will the Orc-King not be angered by the death of his last heir?” Thranduil asked, matching his son’s insouciant manner.

“No more so than you would be, I should imagine,” Legolas drawled, picking crusted blood from under his nails.

Elladan and Elrohir between them picked up the severed head and replaced it in the bag while father and son wrangled politely. With deference, the sack was placed on the lowest step of the dais. The Peredhil then stood to the side, out of the line of Thranduil’s sight.

“Do you wish to hear that my life would be desolate if you should die?” the King asked.

Legolas’s lovely lips curled in scorn. “As desolate as the death of my mother left you?” he inquired cuttingly.

Thranduil sighed. It appeared he was never to be forgiven for taking another Consort so soon after Elenath’s death.

“Even so,” the King said wearily. “Was there aught else you wished to say to me?”

“I can think of nothing I wish to say to you,” Legolas replied.

Thranduil hardened his heart against the familiar pain of his son’s rejection. “You will stay long enough to greet the Lord and Lady of Lorien,” he said. It was not a question.

“Of course, Sire,” the Prince replied. “They shall receive from me all honor for well they deserve it.”

“I give you my leave to go,” the King said.

“And this alone I will take gladly from you,” Legolas said as he turned to go.

As the Prince and his companions reached the door, Thranduil called after them.

“Our visitors from the Golden Wood are not used to the grim realities of fighting the Dark Hordes hand to hand. I would suggest a change of clothing before dinner,” Thranduil said as though addressing a precocious but ill-mannered Elfling.

Legolas’s neck stiffened, but he did not reply as he exited the audience chamber. It did not matter what peril he threw himself in the path of, his father did not react by so much as the twitch of an eyelid. The Prince should accept that his Sire blamed him for his mother’s death and simply did not love him. He could stop trying to make Thranduil show some proof.

“What say you?” the Prince spoke merrily to the twins. “Shall we wash the Shadow from our skin and array us in courtly finery?”

“I would sell Elrohir to Haradrim Corsairs for a hot bath,” Elladan replied.

Elrohir gasped in reproach, and then cuffed the back of his brother’s head.

Legolas grasped Elladan’s wrist before he could retaliate. “Come,” the Prince of Mirkwood said, eyeing the door warden. “Let us go before we are detained for brawling in the palace.”

“Was it worth it, Lasse?” Elrohir asked curiously as the walked away.

Legolas threw his arms around the twins’ shoulders. “I hear Galadriel is as fair as your sister,” he said, changing the subject. “I look forward to meeting her.”

The Peredhil vied with one another to describe the Lady of Light’s golden beauty and Elrohir’s question was forgotten.


	2. Part Two: baileymoyes — LiveJournal

An LotR a/u fic  
Rated PG13  
Warning: Non-canon  
Disclaimer: These are not my characters.  
Thank you, Jean.  
IxIxIxIxIxIxI  


“Gondor has not asserted this right since the Second Age,” Elrond said.

“Gondor has not had need before now,” Celeborn replied.

“What need?” Thranduil asked.

The Lord of Rivendell inclined his head to the King of Mirkwood. “The current Heir is a young Man sheltered by those with too much care for him. Gilraen, his mother, confided in me in her letter. She recognizes the control the Steward holds over the Heir and wishes her son to have a strong ally after she is gone.”

“Aragorn will have much need of allies in the coming days,” Galadriel said.

“Have you seen something in your Mirror?” Thranduil asked quickly.

“I see many things,” Galadriel answered. “For Isildur’s Heir I see strife and war and much blood spilled, some of it the blood of those dear to him.”

“What do we care who rules in Gondor?” the King of Mirkwood sighed.

“We promised,” Celeborn said.

“If it is already decided, why do we debate? Let us choose who is to go and be done with this business,” Thranduil said.

“I will go,” Haldir said from behind Galadriel’s chair.

The Lady of Light beckoned the Marchwarden forward.

“Haldir has volunteered,” she said. “Though I am loath to part with him.”

“He is of high lineage,” Elrond said speculatively, as he cast a measuring glance over the tall Marchwarden.

“And he is an able warrior,” Celeborn vouched.

Thranduil had also been assessing Haldir. “An able warrior?” the King said. “What does that signify in the Golden Wood? I have no doubt that your pretty Marchwarden can dance around with a blade, but has he ever had to use one?”

Elrond turned his hawk-eyed gaze on the Wood-Elf monarch, but Galadriel forestalled his reproving speech. Rising, the Lady put a hand on Haldir’s polished mithril vambrace.

“Thranduil is right. We of Lothlorien have not known strife since the First Age. Elvendom has been a peace for millennia. Only Mirkwood, on the border of Mordor, is still harassed by the depredations of the Wild Orc.”

“Wild Orc!” Thranduil snorted. “You speak as if they are animals, Lady. They have a new leader and they are becoming organized, though none of you wish to hear of it.”

“By your reckoning, the Vigil should come from Mirkwood,” Elrond said. “You have several sons, Thranduil. Will one them not go to Gondor?”

“You have sons as well,” Thranduil pointed out. “And a daughter rumored to be their equal in the artsof combat.”

“I would not send Arwen to Minas Tirith though it meant the doom of all Men.” Elrond paused to draw a calming breath. “Elladan and Elrohir are not welcome in Gondor. For reasons that should be obvious.”

“Ah, of course, the father, Arathorn,” Thranduil said. “I had forgotten.”

“You do tend to forget easily, Sire,” Legolas said as he entered the chamber. “It’s a failing of yours. I beg the pardons of these Lords and this Lady for my tardiness.”

“And ours,” Elladan said from behind the Prince of Mirkwood.

Elrond nodded greeting to his sons, not liking the familiar way they flanked Mirkwood’s Prince. The image was much too apt somehow, though Rivendell’s Lord could not say why it disturbed him so.

To Galadriel the Peredhil appeared as two sleek hunting hounds, strong and eager, awaiting their master’s whistle to run down prey. The Sindar Prince’s figure wavered in the Lady’s sight as he paced forward with feral grace.

In Legolas’s lithe frame, Galadriel beheld the seeds of great destiny and she shuddered at the magnitude of the presentiment. Celeborn turned to his Lady with an inquiring look as his arm went around her shoulders.

Legolas stopped in front of the royal pair and bowed in the Elvish manner. “Lord Elrond, I know of old,” the Prince said. “But you I have not met. I am pleased to have the honor now.”

Galadriel placed her fingers on the Prince’s palm and met his eyes squarely. Long she stared into the inky blue depths, as fathomless as the waves that covered Numenor. In this Elf she sensed rage like the fires of Mount Oroduin and a passion to match. Beneath it was a gulf of sorrow deeper than the deepest mine in Moria.

“If you would have my counsel,” Galadriel said, letting go of Legolas’s hand. “I would bid you send Prince Legolas to Minas Tirith.”

Legolas turned to look at his father, as Thranduil began enumerating the reasons why it would not be convenient for the Prince to leave Mirkwood just now. Elrond was looking at the Lady with an enigmatic expression on his severe features. Celeborn listened patiently to the King of Mirkwood before turning to Elrond.

“What say you, my Lord of Rivendell?”

“My sons have told me many tales of the Prince’s exploits,” Elrond said. “The Lady’s counsel seems good to me.”

“My Lady,” Haldir began before Galadriel’s upraised hand silenced him.

“I know your heart is stout and steadfast,” she said. “However Prince Legolas is the best choice for this honor. The Prince is a seasoned warrior and I fear the Heir will have great need of such.”

“Am I to be consulted at all in this matter?” Legolas asked.

“You may refuse of course,” Celeborn said. “And the post will pass to another, one less qualified for it. But that is not your concern.”

“Tell me of this post,” Legolas said.

“Long ago, certain promises were made to the leaders of the Edain,” Celeborn said. “One of them is a vow to protect the line of Elendil.”

Legolas nodded. The fate of the Numenorean royal house was inextricably entwined with that of the mighty of Elvendom. He had never understood why his folk would nurture such weak creatures as Men. Thankfully, he had never come into contact with one.

“Gondor has called for the oath to be fulfilled,” Celeborn said. “And we will answer by sending our finest warrior, if you consent to go.”

“You wish me to go to Gondor?” Legolas said. “There is no war in Gondor. However, Orcs are threatening to over-run the northeastern border of Mirkwood. I think my bow would be of more use here.”

“Your wish to protect your homeland is admirable,” Galadriel said. “But I would ask you to look beyond your borders. You have little affection for Men, but do not let that cloud your judgment. Men breed much faster than Elves and will soon rule this Middle Earth. And though you frown, I tell you that Man is preferable to the alternative.”

“Yrch!” Legolas spat the ancient word like a curse.

“That is why we nurture the Edain,” Galadriel said. “They have nobility within them and we must coax it forth. We cannot leave this world in the hands of foul Orcs and their ilk.”

“This Heir to the throne of Gondor is like to his ancestors,” Elrond said. “Aragorn has the nobility of the first Men that allied themselves with the Galadrim against the Enemy. With their aid, Morgoth was defeated and certain pledges were made unto them.”

Legolas shook his head. He had no patience with tradition and ancient pacts. However, it was plain to the Prince that his father did not wish him to go.

“If it is the will of those gathered here that I go to Minas Tirith, I will not gainsay you,” Legolas said. “But who will captain the Trackers of Mirkwood?”

“I will take your place,” Haldir said.

“You could not,” Legolas all but sneered. “The Trackers would not follow you.”

“At my command, they will,” Thranduil broke in. “I accept your offer, Marchwarden. You shall be as a son to me while mine is away.”

Haldir bowed to the King of Mirkwood in gratitude for his salvaged pride. Legolas ground his teeth, but contented himself with a scornful glance at the Marchwarden’s ceremonial armor. Galadriel was patently unhappy about this development, but she held her peace on the matter. Celeborn’s words seemed loud in the tense silence.

“All that remains is the Dedication,” pronounced the Lord of the Golden Wood.

IxIxIxIxIxIxI

“Legolas,” Elladan said lightly as he helped the Prince arm for the ceremony. “When you arrive in Minas Tirith, will you send me a token from the City?”

Falling in with his twin’s teasing, Elrohir tugged gently on one of Legolas’s battle-braids. “Aye, and one for me as well. Perhaps one of those pretty banners I’ve heard tales of.”

Legolas lifted his arms as Elladan knelt and wound the woven leather belt about his waist. “Why? You have no more interest than I in the works of Man,” he said.

Elrohir glanced down at his brother and raised an eyebrow.

“As it happens, you are wrong, oh beauteous, but dour Prince,” Elladan replied. “Though our sire, Elrohir and I have acquired quite a store of knowledge about mortals.”

“You surprise me,” Legolas said.

“We have concerns other than competing to kill the most Orcs,” Elrohir said.

Legolas could not hide his smile as he spoke. “Again you surprise me.”

“There are other things in this life,” Elladan said, rising smoothly to his full height.

“I can think of naught more vital than the destruction of Mirkwood’s enemies,” Legolas said.

“Long we have hunted with you,” Elrohir said, leaning against the Wood-Elf’s back. “You are the bravest warrior I have ever known and I will always come if you call. However …”

“However,” Elladan continued Elrohir’s thought. “You can be somewhat reckless and willful. Men are not so direct as Elfkind. I, we caution you to moderation while in Gondor.”

Legolas raised his eyebrows in a droll expression. “My mission is to protect Gondor’s Heir. I might conceivably be called upon to act in a less than moderate manner.”

“Tis true,” Elrohir said over the Wood-Elf’s shoulder.

Elladan sighed and embraced Mirkwood’s Prince, wrapping his arms around Elrohir as well. “You are as a brother, Lasse,” Elladan said. “A third twin, if such were possible. I know you do not like it, but you must forgive us if we sometimes fear for you.”

“It is only that we care for you,” Elrohir agreed, laying his cheek against Legolas’s.

“I can care for myself,” Legolas said.

Elladan sighed again at the predictable answer. “All know this, Prince of Mirkwood. It is a point of much pride with you. Those that love you accept it because we see beyond this shield. Nay, do not bluster or protest. Let us embrace you this last time before you go. Tell yourself that it is only for our comfort that you allow it.”

Legolas took a deep breath through his nostrils and let it out slowly, but he stopped fidgeting and let the Peredhil bid him farewell. On border patrol, they had often slept thus entwined, and he had grown used to the comfort. In truth, it was very pleasant to be held, though Legolas would never admit it by word or gesture.

“All is ready,” Elrond said from the doorway.

The twins released Legolas and stood away from him. The Lord of Rivendell nodded his approval of the traditional Vigil’s uniform and held out a hand to Mirkwood’s Prince. Legolas followed Elrond with the Twain at his back.

Galadriel, Celeborn and Thranduil awaited them in Thranduil’s smaller audience chamber. Holding out their arms in welcome, they stood in a semi-circle before the low dais. Elrond took his place with them, and waved the Peredhil to the sides so Legolas stood alone.

“There is no test to be passed here,” Celeborn said. “You have been chosen and all that remains is a brief observance of your Dedication to the post of Vigil.”

“Gifts you will receive to aid you in your task,” Galadriel said.

“And our blessing you will have as you begin your service,” Thranduil said.

“Come forward, Legolas Thranduillion,” Celeborn said. “And take this ring.”

Legolas held up his right hand and the Elf Lord slid a mithril band onto the Prince’s forefinger. The ring had no jewel, but was deeply incised with a vining pattern of athelas leaves. The instant it touched the Elf’s flesh, Legolas knew his unthinking spite had led him to make a terrible error.

But it was too late. Whatever ancient magic imbued the mithril circlet had already changed him. Nothing but the fate of Gondor’s Heir held any significance for him now. All else paled by comparison like candles held up to the sun. Even his old feud with his sire was of no more consequence than the sting of a biting fly.

Legolas looked up into Lord Celeborn’s silver-gray eyes. The Lorien Elf met the Prince’s gaze solemnly.

“You are now Dedicated to Elendil’s Heir until such time as he, or his death, release you,” Celeborn said.

You did not warn me, Legolas wanted to shout, like an Elfling learning that fire is hot. Instead, he folded his lips and bowed to the Elf Lord. Galling as it was, Legoals knew he had none but himself to blame.

Turning to the left, Legolas inclined his head to the Lady Galadriel.

It was then that he saw what she held. A moment ago, the Prince would have noted the blade’s workmanship, and turned his attention to something of more interest. Now that he wore the Vigil’s ring, the sword was the most glorious object in creation. With such a noble weapon, he could slay scores of foes in his Ward’s name.

Legolas reached for the hilt without thinking and the Lady kept hold of the scabbard. The young Elf drew forth the slender, elegantly curved blade and held it before his face. The glittering razor-edged steel was chased along its length with the same twining pattern as the ring and the almost non-existent cross-guard was shaped like an athelas leaf.

“This is a good sword,” the Prince of Mirkwood said.

“It is called Aiglosithil,” Elrond said. “Long has it lain among the heirlooms of my house. The smiths of Eregion forged it for Gil-galad as a gift to Elendil. But Elendil was slain and so the oath was made that this sword would be wielded in defense of Elendil’s Heirs.”

Legolas nodded in fervent agreement with Elrond’s words. “And so it shall,” he said.

tbc  



	3. Part Three: baileymoyes — LiveJournal

An LotR a/u by bailey  
Rated PG13 this chapter  
No warnings, except the fact that it's non-canon.  
Disclaimer: These are not my wonderful characters.  
Thank you, Jean  
:::::::  


Legolas patted the neck of the Elvish steed and the sleek animal came to a stop. Laid out before them like a green velvet bedspread in the Last Homely House were the plains of the Pelennor. On the far side, like an empress come down to the river to bathe her feet, stood Minas Tirith. Her pale towers glimmered with the rose light of dawn, streaming banners snapping in the chill wind off the mountains.

The Prince of Mirkwood granted grudging admiration for the pile of stone. It was indeed a pinnacle of accomplishment for the upstart Race of Men. It might even be called beautiful if one had a taste for dwellings built of cold rock. Legolas preferred sleeping without a roof blocking his view of the stars.

Legolas spoke softly and the horse set off down the slope. Swift and tireless, the steed brought his rider to the gates well before midday. Staring in wonder at the Elvish visitor, the guards passed Legolas through.

Word of the Vigil’s coming went ahead of him, and a company of Citadel Guards met him at the steps of the palace. Standing before the brave assemblage in black and silver were the Steward, the Dowager Queen, and a young man in full court regalia. However, Legolas saw no one but the unassuming fellow in the faded scholar’s gown that stood to one side.

Leaping down from his mount, the Prince knelt at the scholar’s feet. Drawing Aiglosithil, he offered the bare blade across his gloved palms. With bowed head, he waited as though prepared to kneel there until the sun burnt out should the young man wish it.

“And so the Vigil passes your little test,” Gilraen remarked to Denethor.

Denethor’s upper lip curdled in barely concealed vexation. “Indeed,” he intoned. “However, it proves nothing.”

“It proves that the binding works,” Gilraen disagreed. “Come, we should greet him with all courtesy as befits his station.”

Denethor offered his arm and cast a sharp glance at Faramir, dressed up in Aragorn’s finery. Faramir felt the familiar hollow pang of having disappointed his father yet again. He was obviously not sufficiently noble-seeming to convince the Elf. With downcast eyes, the Steward’s son followed him down the steps.

With patent disapproval, Denethor ran his eye over the Vigil’s kneeling form. This lissome creature was the mightiest warrior in Elvendom?

“Wait!” Denethor called out as the Heir reached for the hilt of the proffered sword.

Aragorn looked up in surprise, his eyes as vague as a man wakened from a dream.

“A moment, please, Your Highness,” Denethor said as he stopped beside Aragorn. “One hears of enchanted weapons wrought by Elvish smiths. Perhaps it would be better if…”

“He must take the sword,” Legolas said flatly.

“You will not be the judge of what His Highness must do,” Denethor reprimanded. “You have no standing here until you have been approved.”

Legolas lifted his head and met the Heir’s eyes for the first time. The shock was as intense as he had feared, jarring him to the bone, resonating in his every fiber. His soul flowed forth to mingle with Aragorn’s, never to be untangled. Legolas shuddered, adjusting to the new weight on his feo, and finding it was no burden at all.

“Take the sword, my son,” Gilraen said gently.

Aragorn stretched forth his hand and wrapped his fingers around the hilt. A jolt ran up his arm and the blade glowed briefly along its pristine length. The ring on Legolas’s finger grew warm, but the heat faded along with the light. With the distinct feeling that a ritual had ended, Legolas took back the sword, sheathing it as he stood.

“Be welcome to our court,” Gilraen greeted the Elf.

Legolas’s eyes darted in her direction, but he found it hard to take his gaze from the Heir. To others, Prince Aragorn might seem unremarkable, but Legolas saw the innate majesty of the young man, though he was reluctant to admit it. Blaming his weakness upon the ring he wore, the Vigil inclined his head courteously to Gilraen.

Denethor felt the slight when the Elf did not bow to him. “A Vigil,” the Steward said. “Gondor has not needed one in nine hundred years, and it is not clear to me that we need one now. Particularly in such outlandish guise. What is that you are wearing?”

Legolas glanced down at the close fitting, butter soft riding leathers that clung without a wrinkle. The black was unrelieved except by the gleaming metal of the many weapons hung about his person, and the silvery gray cloak at his back.

“This is the traditional uniform of the Vigil,” Legolas answered.

“I find it unseemly, and inappropriate for…” Denethor began, before he was interrupted.

The clatter of hooves on marble rang loud and then a heavy-boned charger hurtled through the arched entry to the audience chamber. The magnificent chestnut stallion reared back on its haunches in a perfect levade before coming back down on all fours. The wind-blown, mud-spattered rider swung down from the saddle.

The Man’s feet never touched the floor. Legolas sprang forward, catching the rider in mid-dismount and flinging him to the ground. Reaching over his shoulder, the Elf whipped a white knife from its sheath and prepared to draw it across the mortal’s throat.

“Stop!” Aragorn cried out.

The others in the chamber called out as well, but it was only the Heir’s voice that Legolas heard. All other sound became muted and Aragorn’s voice stood out like the ringing of a silver trumpet. The Elf stayed his hand, but did not allow the intruder to rise.

“He is not a threat,” Aragorn said. “You may let him up.”

Legolas obeyed instantly, though he disagreed with the Heir’s opinion. The trespasser was a young Man and a reckless one, and he was most certainly a threat. The Elf could smell it on him like hot iron in the forge.

“Stand away from my son, Sindar assassin,” Denethor said sharply.

“My Lord Denethor,” Aragorn said in soft reproof. “Legolas is no assassin; he is my Champion, my shield against all enemies, both hidden and known.”

“I know the words of the Vigil’s Oath as well as you,” Denethor answered. “I will thank you not to correct me until you have more years and greater store of wisdom.”

Denethor stopped speaking suddenly when Legolas’s hand on his throat cut off his air.

“And I will thank you to show the proper respect to the Heir of Isildur,” the Elf hissed.

Aragorn’s mouth fell open as he glanced quickly at Faramir. Faramir’s jaw was similarly slack. It was a moment before the Heir found his voice.

“Please let the Steward go,” the young Man said. “He is sometimes blunt, but his counsel is good and I do not know how I should rule Gondor without him.”

Legolas let the rude Man go and turned to face the horseman that was now holding four feet of naked steel in his hand. The Elf noted the competent grip and well-balanced stance of a skilled warrior as the stranger challenged him.

“Boromir, no!” Aragorn cried out. “This is the Vigil sent by the Elves.”

The blond Man didn’t take his eyes off Legolas as he replied. “If you wish, I will let pass this slight to my family. The Elf is no doubt used to a rougher existence in the Wood. I am certain he will soon learn better manners in the City.”

Legolas understood the insult in the young Man’s words, but he felt no resentment. This mortal was full of pride and Legolas had just humiliated him before his sire and his liege. Legolas well understood the impulse to even the tally.

“Be reasonable, Boromir,” Aragorn said. “You did enter the room somewhat precipitously.”

Boromir finally flicked his gaze to his monarch and best friend. “Precipitously?” he repeated. “I was like rain?”

Aragorn and Faramir exchanged a smile, before the Heir spoke.

“You are like a storm, Boromir. What do you mean by riding your horse into the hall?”

Denethor had recovered his breath and most of his dignity, though he kept a wary eye on the Vigil. “His Highness asks a very pertinent question. Is your errand so dire?”

Boromir threw out his arm in a sweeping gesture, indicating the stallion. “Is he not the finest warhorse your eyes have ever beheld?”

Aragorn and Faramir had both started forward to admire the charger’s points when the Steward cleared his throat. Guiltily, the Heir turned to face Denethor.

“Perhaps it would be better if we looked at him in the courtyard,” Aragorn said.

“For a few moments only, Your Highness,” Denethor said. “There are many documents that require your personal signature.”

The Steward nodded to his eldest son, serving notice that this issue was merely postponed, and the young Men walked outside. Denethor turned to go and found the Elf standing behind him. The Steward was brought up short, chest to chest with the Vigil.

“Heed me,” the Elf said. “For I do not jest. I will show you the honor of your office when the Heir is present, but if you continue to usurp his authority, I will deal with you when he is absent. This will be my only threatening on the matter.”

Denethor looked into the Sindar’s cobalt eyes and saw no anger, only cold, impersonal death. For a long moment they stood so, linked like predator and prey in that timeless space just before the pounce. The Steward exerted his considerable will and broke the trance.

Stepping sideways, Denethor walked around the Elf and forced himself to walk from the hall at a stately pace. Legolas watched him until the draw of the Heir became too much to resist. With a bow to the Dowager Queen, the Vigil walked out to the courtyard.

Boromir saw Legolas first and his hand dropped to the hilt of his sword. One corner of Legolas’s mouth twitched upward, but he ignored the blonde man’s posturing. Bowing slightly from the waist in the Elvish manner, the Vigil spoke directly to the Heir.

“You allow your servants far too many liberties.”

Faramir barked a startled laugh, as he turned to Aragorn. Aragorn smiled in good humor, but Boromir didn’t take the remark well.

“Your new hound is ill-mannered. Teach him better,” the warrior said, cuffing the back of Aragorn’s head, as he was wont to do.

The Vigil moved almost too fast for the eye to follow. Boromir found himself over the Elf’s thigh, his arm immobilized, flailing for balance. With the dexterity that made him a great fighter, Boromir flipped backward, landing on his feet. He had not counted upon the agility of the Elves.

Using Boromir’s brawny arm as a pivot, Legolas sailed over his head to alight behind him. Once again, Aragorn had to intervene.

“Please do not kill Boromir,” Aragorn said, doing his best not to grin.

Faramir had to avert his eyes from the spectacle of his big brother, red-faced and struggling to break the hold of one that looked delicate as a maiden. It was not a sight he would soon forgot. Nor, he wagered, would Boromir.

“He struck you,” Legolas said reasonably. “I am within my rights.”

Faramir made a suspicious gurgling noise, drawing a glance from Aragorn.

“He did not strike me to harm me,” Aragorn countered as Boromir’s face went purple.

“How am I to know his intent? My charge is to ward you from harm, and that is what I shall do, until your death or mine release me.”

Aragorn sobered instantly as the words of the Oath sank in. He was responsible for this Elf until one of them died. Yet one more brick in the wall being built around him. Reminding himself that it was not the Elf’s fault, Aragorn spoke gently.

“I give you my word that you may trust these two men with my life. Now please release Boromir and say hello to Faramir. You will be seeing much of them.”

Legolas let Boromir go and the big warrior swayed as though he would swoon. Faramir moved to support his brother, and Boromir leaned gratefully upon his shoulder. As Boromir caught his breath, Aragorn scrutinized the Elf.

“If you are going to guard me, we will have to have a few rules,” Aragorn said.

“I have been chosen and bound to serve you,” Legolas said. “But I will disobey any order that brings harm to you.”

Aragorn exchanged a glance with Faramir. Faramir raised his eyebrows, mirroring Aragorn’s incredulous expression.

“You will obey me only when it suits you?” Aragorn asked.

“That is not what I said,” Legolas answered.

Aragorn waited for the Elf to go on, but Legolas had finished speaking. “I see,” Aragorn said. “It would seem that a Vigil is a double-edged sword.”

“And a menace,” Boromir gasped, glaring at the Elf.

“Softly, brother,” Faramir counseled.

“I do not fear him,” Boromir said.

“I think you should, Bo,” Aragorn said slowly. “I fear he would have killed you had I not spoken.”

“Assuredly, I would have snapped his neck after choking him unconscious,” Legolas said.

“And there you have it,” Faramir murmured. “Come, brother. Let me help you off the field of battle to nurse your wounds so that you might fight another day.”

Boromir let his little brother cajole him into leaving. The warrior cast a dark look back at the Vigil, and found the creature gazing mildly back at him over Aragorn’s shoulder. There was something about the tableau that made Boromir uneasy, but whether he admitted it or not, he was in need of care. The thrice-damned Wood-Elf had nearly taken his head off.

“Are they all like that?” Boromir croaked, as Faramir helped him to his quarters.

“Are all who like what?”

“The Elf, you ninny. Between us two, I will confess, that maidenish stripling is stronger than any man of the Guard.”

“I have told you many times of the ways in which those of Elfkind are superior to Man.”

“Superior!” Boromir snorted as Faramir assisted him in removing his sable and silver uniform.

“What would you call it? They are wiser, faster, stronger, and they live forever. Is that not deserving of the term superior?”

Boromir shook his head. “They have no hearts,” he passed judgment.

“And I should take your word, as you are so learned in the ways of the Galadrim.”

“The what?” Boromir lay upon his soldier’s bed with a sigh of relief.

Faramir wanted to smile, but the bruises that shadowed his brother’s skin darkened his mood. “I will send for a healer,” he said.

“A healer? Are you injured?”

Faramir did smile then. “Get some rest, brother,” he said, pulling the covers up to Boromir’s chin, and kissing him on the forehead. “Tomorrow you can address the issue of heartless Vigils. But I would caution you to tread warily. This Legolas has no regard for the fact that you are the son of Gondor’s Steward, and he was not joking when he said he would kill you.”

“I never thought that he was. If you would please me, go to the command post and tell my lieutenant that I have returned, and I am taking some rest. Have him see to my new horse.”

“I will,” Faramir answered. “Will we see you at dinner?”

“Most likely,” Boromir turned over with a groan.

Faramir gazed fondly at his brother’s broad back for a long moment before he left. Boromir could be overbearing, even bullying at times, but his purpose was to protect, and he could not always stop to be courteous as he was saving your life. Faramir took his brother’s brusqueness in stride; it was his father’s coldness that never lost its bite.

As the Steward’s youngest son hurried toward the Royal Quarters, he remembered the way the Vigil had chastised Denethor for his disrespect. A small smile lit Faramir’s face at the memory of his father’s discomfiture. It was not becoming that he take joy in it, but Faramir could allow himself to hope that the Elf would give Aragorn some of the strength the Heir needed to stand on his own.

Still smiling, Faramir knocked on the door to Aragorn’s chambers.

tbc


	4. Part Four: baileymoyes — LiveJournal

LotR a/u  
Aragorn/Legolas  
Rated: PG13  
Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me.  
See Part One for summary.  
Thank you, Jean  
:::::::::

  
Aragorn reached for the ties of his cloak only to find the Elf’s hands there first. Deftly, Legolas divested the Heir of his cloak, and went to work on the laces of his tunic. Before Aragorn could protest, he stood in leggings and boots in the middle of his bedchamber.

A push on his sternum, and Aragorn sat down rather suddenly on the chair behind him. In a trice, his boots were yanked off and his leggings seemed slated for the same fate. Grasping at the knitted silk, Aragorn narrowly avoided being stripped naked.

“I can attend to this,” the Heir said. “I am unused to servants.”

“But you are a prince.”

“A fact I hardly need reminding of,” Aragorn sighed. “I had hoped you might be different, think differently from those around me.”

The Elf’s smooth brow furrowed, and Aragorn went on.

“I prefer not to waste a servant’s time on such a trivial task. It is a poor use of a resource, and I am easily capable of doffing and donning my own garments.”

“Very practical,” the Vigil said. “Will you be sleeping now?”

“Soon,” Aragon said. “I would like to learn more about you first.”

“I will answer any question you put to me.”

“You said you would disobey any order that put me at risk, yet you released Boromir when I told you too.”

“Boromir is a threat only so long as I allow him to be one.”

“I…see,” Aragorn said, not at all sure that he did. “Forgive my curiosity, but would you mind giving me a display of your strength?”

Without hesitation, Legolas ripped an iron sconce from the wall and bent the metal arc into a circle. Without a word, he handed it to the Heir. Aragorn stared at the sconce solemnly.

“That will do,” he said. “I hope my thirst for knowledge does not offend you. I have read much of the Eldar, and I have many questions.”

“I have questions also.”

Aragorn’s eyebrows went up. “Very well,” he said. “I will make you a bargain: one for one.”

Legolas inclined his head, firelight gleaming on the coiled battle braids. “It would seem a fair exchange. Why do you submit to that soulless Steward?”

“You do come right to the point, don’t you?” Aragorn said, as he pulled a nightshirt over his head. “Denethor’s house has always been allied with mine. He has been father and mentor to me since my sire was killed. His sons are my closest companions. And I do not call being respectful submission.”

“Nor do I.”

Aragorn cocked an eye at the Vigil. There was nothing in the Elf’s tone to take exception to, but the young man knew that he was being subtly mocked.

“The Steward does not control me,” he said firmly. “Why did you allow yourself to be bound to a mortal?”

Legolas took a deep, chest-expanding breath before answering. “Because I am a young and foolish Sindar.”

“That is hardly the whole story.”

The Elf’s eyes went to the window. Night had crept over Gondor, but here in Minas Tirith the torches held it at bay.

“It would please me if I could say to you that I was deceived, but in truth, I was blinded by hatred. Even had I known the price, I would have put on the ring and taken up the sword Aiglosithil if all I gained was one moment of suffering for my sire.”

Aragorn’s breath was stolen by this raw candor. No one in the palace ever said what he or she meant directly. Everything must be danced around like some verbal gavotte.

“Are all your Race so plainspoken?”

“It is my turn,” the Elf said. Why do you cover yourself when you sleep?”

“An easy question. For the same reason we all wear clothing: to protect us from the elements.”

“We are under a roof, and you have blankets.”

“I cannot dispute your logic. Then I suppose I wear a nightshirt because it is the custom of my people.”

“Ah. Will my nakedness offend you then?”

Aragorn blinked. “Offend me? No. Of course not. Men are often naked together at the public baths. Why do you ask?”

“Because I do not wear clothing when I rest, and I will be resting next to you.”

“By day and night,” Aragorn murmured.

“That was not a question.”

“No, just a line from your oath. Am I to have no privacy at all?”

“You will be King,” Legolas answered.

“Aye,” Aragorn sighed. “And right soon, I fear.”

“Why fear?”

“I am tired and I misspoke. It has just come home to me that I shall not see my mother for many years.”

“She is leaving?”

“She left just after you arrived. She has not seen her kin since my birth. I do not begrudge her the journey, but I need her here.”

“She gave you life. What more would you have of her?”

Aragorn drew breath to answer but a knock forestalled him. “Come in, Faramir,” he called.

Legolas was beside the opening door before Aragorn finished speaking. When he saw that it was indeed the Steward’s younger son, the Vigil stood aside. Faramir nodded cordially to the Elf as he moved around him.

“Well, Boromir is no testier than a bear with a toothache,” he said, sitting down opposite Aragorn. “In other words, he is himself.”

Aragorn smiled. “A night’s rest will sweeten him, and your father seems to have taken mercy upon me. Not one courier bearing urgent documents to be signed since I retired.”

“It has been a momentous day,” Faramir said. “Father knows you need your rest.”

“But you feel differently to judge by your expression.”

Faramir pulled a small book from an inner pocket of his burgundy robe. It was scarcely larger than Aragorn’s handspan, and barely a finger’s thickness. Bound in green leather, it was embossed with golden elanor blossoms.

“It was my mother’s,” Faramir said, running his fingertips over the silver clasp. “A collection of verses she translated from the Elvish. I thought they might soothe you.”

Aragorn’s shy smile bloomed over his face and Faramir’s heart was warmed. Ever did Faramir seek for ways to smooth the Heir’s path.

“I assure you Faramir isn’t trying to kill me with a book of poetry,” Aragorn said mildly as the slim volume was plucked from his hand.

Legolas ignored the prince as he paged quickly through the book. Stopping just before the end, the Elf read aloud in a voice as cool and beautiful as frost flowers on a windowpane. The Heir and his friend sat spellbound until the Vigil stopped speaking.

“It does not sound so bad in your tongue,” was the Elf’s judgment.

“I have never heard anything half so beautiful,” Faramir murmured.

“Nor I,” Aragorn agreed. “I would keep you around just to read to me, even if you were not a mighty warrior.”

Legolas cocked his head. “Your words are foolish, and yet oddly pleasing. Will Faramir sleep here as well?”

“Would it be a problem?”

“Are you lovers?”

Aragorn’s jaw dropped as he exchanged a wide-eyed glance with Faramir. “You must answer my question first,” the Heir blurted out.

“Whom you bed is of great importance to me,” the Vigil said. “And I would not let it become a problem.”

“I see. No, Faramir is not my lover. What put that notion in your head? We are both men.”

“How is that significant?” Legolas wanted to know.

Aragorn and Faramir’s gazes met again.

“Is there no stigma attached to the love of one man for another among your kind?” Faramir made bold to ask the Elf.

“Nay, and why should there be?”

“No reason that I can think of,” Faramir replied with another look at Aragorn. “But there are those in the White City, indeed throughout Gondor, and probably across the breadth of Middle Earth that could find reasons.”

Legolas’s delicate brows drew down again. “My sire has told me of the backwardness of Mankind. I am sorry to see him proven right, but I am not surprised.”

Faramir laughed. “Your Vigil has a most subtle wit, Aragorn. I assume he will be with you in the Council Chamber?”

Aragorn nodded. “I should have paid closer attention to the Vigil’s Oath. It seems he is bound to stay at my side, waking and sleeping, until death sunders the magic that joins us.”

“That could be… awkward,” the Steward’s son said. “If it were anyone but you.”

Aragorn lifted one eyebrow.

“Well, honestly, is there anyone in Minas Tirith that is more circumspect than the Heir?” Faramir challenged.

Aragorn sighed. “Your words have the ring of truth, my friend. Not only have I never committed an impropriety, I have never even had the opportunity.”

“Poor Aragorn,” Faramir commiserated merrily as he tousled the autumn brown hair. “You should accompany Boromir the next time he invites you to go carousing with him.”

A rosy stain spread over Aragorn’s high cheekbones. “It is one thing for Captain Boromir to spread his seed like a wild bull, but I will rule Gondor one day. I cannot afford to have bastards appearing on my doorstep when I am King.”

“There speaks my father,” Faramir muttered under his breath.

“If you fear the female will catch,” Legolas spoke up, “you must take measures to ensure she does not kindle.”

Again the Elf found himself the focus of two sets of eyes. “Have you no means of…”

Legolas’s words were drowned out by the hammering knock at the outer door. Faramir hurried forward, and found the Vigil at the door ahead of him. Following the Elf, Faramir was in time to see his brother flung against the antechamber wall with armor-rattling force. Boromir bounced off, his hand already wrapped around his sword hilt as he regained footing.

“This is becoming tiresome,” Aragorn said from the doorway. “What news, Boromir?”

Boromir broke eye contact with the Elf. “I wish I did not have to be the one to bring you these tidings, but I thought… better me than my father.”

“What is it?” Aragorn gestured Boromir closer.

Legolas came to stand at Aragorn’s right side as Boromir bowed his head to his liege.

“We have just received word that your mother’s ship was set upon by Corsairs. The ship was captured and even now sails toward Umbar. I have sent word to every ship that flies the flag of Gondor to pursue the black fleet.”

The blood dropped from Aragorn’s face as he stared at Boromir. “No. It cannot be,” he whispered. “Where is the Steward?”

“I am here,” Denethor said as he swept through the door flanked by two Citadel Guards.

“What should we do?” Aragorn asked.

“All that can be done is being done,” the Steward said. “Calm yourself, Your Highness.”

Legolas moved between Aragorn and Denethor. For a long moment, Vigil and Steward locked eyes.

“Why have you not declared war on Umbar and begun mobilizing your forces?” the Elf asked.

“War!” Denethor thundered. “The declaration of war can only come after much careful deliberation by men with cool heads.”

“Corsairs have abducted your queen. That is a declaration of war.”

“Go back to your trees,” Denethor sneered. “You know nothing of the matters you would dabble in, assassin.”

“And you are a coward,” Legolas delivered his deadliest insult.

“I am a man of reason,” Denethor corrected. “And I have striven to instill respect for rationality in the Heir.”

“It is cold counsel you offer that will wither your king before time. Already he speaks as a doddering old man afraid of change.”

“I do not believe your opinion was sought,” the Steward sniffed. “Your Highness, the admirals have their orders and are in pursuit of the Corsairs. There is naught else that may be done save pray that the queen is alive and unharmed.”

The Elf snorted. “And that is as likely as snow in Harad. Corsairs might keep a captive alive, but only to be sold as a slave.”

“Heartless creature,” Denethor hissed. “It is the Heir’s mother we speak of.”

“A woman,” Legolas nodded. “The Captain of the Corsairs at least will taste her sweetness.”

“Legolas!” Aragorn exclaimed in shock.

The Elf turned and beheld the pain he had caused his ward. An iron first reached into his chest and squeezed his heart in a merciless grip.

“Forgive me,” he gasped. “I spoke without thought. The raiders will recognize the sigils on the queen’s ship and may keep her safe for ransom.”

“Aye,” Faramir broke in. “They will likely have taken her hostage.”

“Indeed,” Denethor said. “We have only to wait for word from these pirates.”

Aragorn bit his lip, raking the hair back from his face as he tried desperately to think, but the thought of his mother in the hands of raiders would not let him.

“Denethor is right,” the Heir said finally. “Our only choice is to wait.”

“Let me take a company of knights down the river road,” Boromir said. “We will intercept any messengers from these honorless southrons.”

With a glance at Aragorn, Denethor nodded permission to his eldest son. Faramir started to follow Aragorn back into his bedchamber, but the prince turned him gently away. The Heir’s slumped shoulders tore at Faramir’s heart as the Vigil closed the door on him. For the first time in his life, Aragorn had shut him out.

tbc


	5. Part Five: baileymoyes — LiveJournal

An LotR a/u  
Aragorn/Legolas  
Rated PG13  
Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me.  
Thank you, Jean  
:::::::::

Aragorn crossed his arms on the cold stone of the windowsill, and put his head down. The myriad colors of the lamps of the White City swam in his vision like drops of oil in a mud puddle. The tiny points of lights wavered and blurred together as he imagined his mother in the hands of ruthless Corsairs. A teardrop made a dark spot on the marble.

Legolas frowned at the Heir’s posture, and turned Aragorn to face him. The man’s sorrowful expression changed to one of surprise as he met the Elf’s gaze. Unmoving, Aragorn looked into his Vigil’s eyes as Legolas touched a fingertip to the Heir’s wet cheek and then to his own tongue.

“It tastes of salt,” Legolas said. “We are more alike than I would care to think.”

“Mithrandir, my old tutor, told me it is because we came from the sea, and we keep this small bit of it inside us to express our longing to return.”

“I have heard of the Grey Pilgrim. He is deemed wise even among my folk.”

“Alas, he and the Steward could not agree upon my education,” Aragorn sighed. “I had to choose, though the choice tore me in twain.”

“And when the Steward and I disagree will you then make another choice?”

“I hope that will not be necessary.”

“Your hopes are destined to fail. You must make a choice now.”

Aragorn’s face went still. “What choice?”

“To take horse and go after she that bore you, or stay here and never be aught but a puppet.”

Blue lightning kindled in the depths of the Heir’s vivid eyes and glad the Elf was to see the battle light blaze forth, even if it were directed at him.

“You have forgotten your manners!” Aragorn said.

“And you have forgotten that I am also a prince and your equal.”

“What of the oath and the binding?”

A half-smile quirked one corner of the Elf’s sculpted lips. “I am compelled to ward you from all harm, but the Oath does not require me to cosset you like a bird fallen from its nest. I will always speak the truth to you, whether it is pleasant for you or not.”

“My fondest wish has always been for a companion that would not care that I was of royal blood. Mithrandir was right about that as well: one really should be careful what one wishes for.” Aragorn straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin. “What do you suggest I do?”

“Look into your heart. What does it bid you do?”

“I want my mother back,” Aragorn said.

Legolas nodded. “The way will be long and fraught with peril,” he warned. “Your Steward will be the first obstacle.”

“He will never consent to this.”

“Then do not ask. I often go on journeys without consulting my sire. Come with me, and I will get you out of the City unseen.”

Aragorn’s teeth worried his lower lip for a few moments, and then he walked purposefully toward a chest in the corner. From it he took a sword, worn but serviceable, in a scabbard of antique design. Legolas watched with approval as he buckled on the weapon and donned the gray cloak it had been wrapped in.

“A gift from Mithrandir,” Aragorn explained, as the Elf eyed the stained, patched garment. “Often, we would walk about the countryside, and he insisted we go in disguise.”

“A wise man, indeed,” Legolas said. “You are ready?”

“No,” Aragorn said truthfully, “but if I wait until I am ready, we might never leave.”

Legolas went to the window. “Come.”

“Out the window?”

The Vigil did not answer, but held out a hand to his ward. After a moment, Aragorn took it.

A short time later, a troubled Faramir returned to the royal chambers. His distress was not allayed when he found Aragorn’s bed and quarters empty. After a brief search and a long bout of thinking, he surmised what must have happened. Though his first thought was to inform his father, Faramir waited until dawn.  
:::::::

“Never have you shown me a father’s due of respect,” Denethor said coldly. “Always your first thought is for the prince.”

Faramir kept his head bowed as his father flayed him with a sharp tongue.

“If you thought you were helping Aragorn in this duplicity, you may soon rue your choice, if all you have helped him to is an unknown grave. The Heir is out in the Wilds with only that feral Elf for company.”

“They took horses,” Faramir said under his breath.

Denethor’s face froze. “Aye, Roheryn and the Elvish steed are missing from the royal stables. So Aragorn can run away even faster. I have seen the small signs of rebellion in him of late, but he is of an age to marry and I deemed his restlessness excusable. I was a fool to be so lax and now this… this Vigil has led the boy into folly.”

“Father, I do not think…”

“That is painfully obvious to me,” Denethor interrupted. “I am thankful that your brother is patrolling the river road. He will bring the Heir back where we can keep him safe.”

“I have no doubt, Father,” Faramir said. “Is there a task you deem within my capabilities?”

Denethor pointed to the scribe’s desk next to his. “You write a fair hand,” he said. “And the Elf was correct about one thing. This insult from Umbar must be answered.”

Faramir dipped quill in ink, swallowed the humiliation of being reduced to a servant’s status, and took down the diplomatic words as Denethor spoke them. In his heart, the young man cupped a small flame of joy that Aragorn was free for a while, no matter the circumstances.

And when the Steward had affixed his seal, Faramir bore the document away in the leathern tube of a courier. He spoke to none that he passed until he reached the royal stables. A sleek courser was saddled for him, its sable velvet caparisons bearing the white tree and stars sigil of Gondor’s royal house.

Without a backward glance, Faramir rode down to the gate and left Minas Tirith by the south road.  
:::::::

Aragorn drew rein and Legolas looked back at him.

“Why have you stopped?”

“No one takes that path. The woods there are haunted.”

The Elf peered down the tunnel of interlaced branches, his every sense attuned to the forest ahead. “There are spirits here,” he said. “The ghosts of ancient warriors mingled with the feo of the trees.”

“I told you.”

“Why do you fear them?”

“They are ghosts,” Aragorn said. “They lie in wait to bewitch the unwary traveler. If we enter here, we will never come out again. Or if we do, we will be aged a hundred years.”

Legolas lifted an eyebrow. “Are these the sorts of stories that human children are told?”

“You would seem to mock me.”

“Nay, say rather that I pity you. Though it is true that there are evil spirits in the world, none dwell in this wood. What you feel is the long sorrow of warriors that fell far from their home. Their bones lie uneasy under the soil and their feos long for release.”

“They are trapped here?”

Legolas nodded. “Oaths they took to their captains and kings, and here will they lie until one with the power and right shall set them free.”

Aragorn frowned as the Elf’s words sank in. “Who has this power? Mithrandir perhaps?”

“Perhaps. Are you ready, your highness?”

“I will follow where you lead,” Aragorn said. “In truth, I must depend upon you now for I am off familiar ground without a compass. You must be my lodestone, Legolas.”

A swift little shiver went through the Vigil from crown to soles when the Heir spoke his name. Like a charger that hears the battle trumpet, the Elf quivered with readiness to do his ward’s will. With a great effort, Legolas wrenched his rampant emotions back under control and urged his mount forward.

Having made his decision to trust his guide, Aragorn followed the Elf into the dark green tunnel under the trees.

:::::::::

Boromir looked up as the scout returned. “What news, Barahir?”

“Boatmen from the Pelargir saw the Corsair ship pass the mouth of the Poros. We will not catch them on horseback, captain.”

The grim line of Boromir’s mouth tightened a fraction. “This I knew ere we left the City. Have you aught else to tell me?”

“One of the boatmen swore he saw a tall woman aboard the reaver ship. And that he would be willing to take a party down river for the right price.”

Boromir’s hand went to the great horn that hung from his baldric. “I am not charged with pursuing the vessel, yet my heart bids me go after these vermin that have offered such insult to Gondor.”

The scout stood still as one of the sentinel stones beside the road as his captain pondered their next move. Boromir was headstrong, fierce and uncompromising, but the men of his troop would follow him into Mordor if he asked it of them. Typically, it did not take the Steward’s eldest son long to make up his mind.

“Let a courier be sent to my father,” Boromir said. “He will not be best pleased, but there is not time to wait for his decision. We will go after the Queen. I assume this boatman of Pelargir has a swift vessel?”

The scout nodded. “Aye, my captain, as sleek as a hunting hound. I suspect this helpful fellow may be a smuggler hoping to rid himself of some competition from Umbar.”

“I care not,” Boromir said, raising the horn to his lips.

The scout came to attention as his captain blew a short winding note. The rest of the troop leapt to their feet and thence to their saddles. The youngest man was sent back to Minas Tirith with a message for the Steward, and the rest of the knights followed the scout south across verdant Ithilien.

After showing the Pelargiran his signet ring, Boromir’s promise of gold was enough to buy passage for as many knights and horses as the ship could hold. The cloaked and hooded captain of the boat refused to empty his cargo hold, and not even the bribes and threats offered by the Gondorian could sway him. Boromir’s threat to commandeer the vessel was met with calm serenity.

The Pelargiran opened a hatch and held a lantern so that Boromir could see into the hold. “Threaten me again,” the man said. “And I drop this light.”

Without a word, Boromir turned and selected six knights to accompany him. As the chosen Guards were leading their destriers up the ramp onto the sloop, Barahir came to stand at his captain’s shoulder.

“You will be coming with us, never fear,” Boromir said.

“Thank you, captain. What does this fellow have in the hold that is so dire?”

“All that one might need to make fireworks,” Boromir answered.

“Ah. I see. I will tread lightly, captain.”

“As you ever do. Keep a sharp eye on our host.”

Barahir saluted and led his horse onto the boat at the end of the line. After a last look down the road from whence they came, Boromir coaxed his charger onto the shifting deck. The captain of Gondor could not shrug off his feeling of misgiving as the shore fell away from the stern of the ship, but he did not let it dissuade him.

With firm resolve, he turned his face to the freshening breeze and walked to the front. Like a figurehead carved in the likeness of a Second Age hero, Boromir stood at the prow with one hand on his sword hilt and the other gripping his horn. His men saw to their steeds and gave their captain some rare time alone.  
:::::::::

“Come below, Lady. Soon the biting flies will be out.”

Gilraen turned to regard the boy in the doorway of the cabin. “I would breathe free air as long as I may.”

“As you please, Lady. I cannot command you.”

“Though I am a captive?”

“My lord says you are not to be harmed, but treated with all respect, Lady.”

“And why would that be, do you think?”

“I am only a slave, Lady. My lord does not reveal his plans to me.”

“Surely you may guess. Do you think he intends to ransom me?”

“I think you would be worth any price, but I do not know if that is his intent.”

“You forgot to say Lady.”

“Forgive me,” the boy bowed deeply.

“Actually, it was becoming quite tedious hearing it at the end of every sentence.”

The slave slapped at his neck. “I promise to say it every other sentence if you will come inside now.”

“I will come in if you will tell me what is to be done with me. I know very well that servants know the whole of their masters business better than any, so do not plead ignorance again.”

“Perhaps it is so in the White City, but not among the Corsairs,” the boy said sullenly. “But I do know that my lord was hired by a very wealthy man to take you captive. You are to be held until he comes to collect you. Now come in, Lady, so I may fetch your dinner before it is dark.”

Gilraen did as the slave bade her and sat upon the soft mattress of her bed. Some care had been taken to disguise the fact that the room was a cell. Rich fabrics covered the bars and a wealth of cushions softened the harsh interior. Despite these concessions to her station and her comfort, the Dowager Queen did not feel hopeful about her captor’s intentions.

Only when the boy left did she put her face in her hands and give vent to her distress. It was not for herself or her plight that she wept, but for her son, so ill equipped to deal with a crisis of this nature. Aragorn could always come to her for comfort and counsel when his role as Heir began to weigh too heavily, but not this time.

This time Aragorn had only Denethor without the balancing influence that Gilraen provided. If only this had not happened just as the Vigil had arrived. If Aragorn had been given time to learn to trust the Elf… However, this was a fruitless line of thought. Her time would be better spent in devising a means of escape.

tbc


	6. Part Six: baileymoyes — LiveJournal

An LotR a/u  
Aragorn/Legolas  
Rated PG13  
These characters do not belong to me.  
Thank you, Jean.  
x:::o:::x:::o:::x

“Why are we stopping?” Aragorn asked. “Surely we wish to get as far away from Minas Tirith as we can.”

“If there is a pursuit this quickly, it is better to hide and let them pass us by. Then we will know where they are.”

Aragorn dismounted and led his horse to the stream where Legolas’s mount was standing fetlock-deep in the cold, clear water. Without further argument, the Heir unsaddled Roheryn, and the big horse joined the Elvish steed.

Legolas had already bent several trailing branches together and lashed them with cord to form a leafy tent. It would not keep the rain off of them, but it would conceal their presence. From without, the screen of foliage looked like a natural part of the forest, and would not provoke curiosity.

“Very clever,” Aragorn said, touching one of the knots. “Like a hunter’s blind, but we are the prey.”

“You speak only for yourself, your highness,” the Vigil said, as he opened his pouch.

Aragorn studied the Elf in the failing light. The gloom under the thick canopy had brought dusk to the forest floor. The tree trunks were columns of smoke, the leaves as dark as cinders against which the Vigil’s pale hair glowed like an afterimage. Tricked into rising early, the lampflies flickered on and off in a living halo.

The Vigil was more beautiful than anything Aragorn had previously deemed comely, as fair and delicate seeming as any highborn maiden, though no maiden of Aragorn’s acquaintance was the Elf’s equal for grace. If Aragorn had not seen Legolas best Boromir, he would not have believed it possible.

Boromir had always been Aragorn’s measure of a hero. Knights were big and brawny, built for action, while men like he and Faramir were clearly destined to guide that action from a distance. To some, the Valar gave strength of arms; to others, they gave wisdom.

Reminding himself that mortals do not choose their gifts, Aragorn changed the subject. “I hope we disturb no sleeping spirits here.”

“Sleeping spirits,” Legolas repeated. “What an odd turn of phrase.”

“Do spirits never sleep?”

“No, but you should. Come and take some rest, your highness. We will travel again when the moon is high.”

“Are you certain we will be safe here?” Aragorn said, as he lay down on his cloak.

“No one may say that with certainty,” the Vigil replied. “But I will guard your sleep, if that thought gives you comfort.”

Aragorn found that it did, as he closed his eyes. The stress of the last few hours had drained him, and he fell quickly into a sound sleep. Hoof beats drummed in the distance and found their way into his dreams.

“My lord!”

The Man sat up and beheld the figure of Gil-Galad’s Herald. The Elf’s long dark hair fell like shadows over his pale face as he reached down to pull the King to his feet.

“They are here,” Elrond said. “It is time.”

The King gazed upon the pitiful numbers of the massed army. He saw what was left of Gondorian knighthood and their Elvish allies that had answered the call. This was the last ditch defense of Minas Tirith. The Enemy had brought the fight to the very threshold of the White City, and this ragged line of weary warriors was all that stood in his way. At the command of the King of Gondor, they would fight, though they knew it was futile to resist.

Sauron’s monstrous hordes thundered forward to the bleating of brazen horns, and the defenders of the West shivered the air with their battle cries. The knights swept in from both wings under a roof made of Elvish arrows. Like a spearhead into the hide of a wild boar, the mounted vestiges of the Citadel Guard drove into the enemy ranks with their liege at the forefront.

The King was felled in the first charge.

“Aragorn!” Legolas shook the Heir and called his name again. When there was no response from the unconscious Man, the Elf cursed in Sindarin. To the Vigil’s surprise, Aragorn answered, though he still slept. And Aragorn’s words troubled his guardian greatly. Hoping he was wrong and knowing he was not, Legolas called a different name.

“Elendil!”

“Aye?”

Legolas cursed again, before composing himself. If he would free his charge of this glamour, he must enter Aragorn’s dream of the past. Wrapping his arms around Gondor’s hope, the Elf lay back against the moss and sought serenity. When his feo had settled, the Vigil took three deep breaths and stepped into the realm invisible.

“Elendil?”

“Am I dying?”

“You are dying,” the Elf replied dispassionately. “A stone from a sling, guided by the great Enemy’s malice, crushed your skull in your helmet.”

“Isildur?”

“He lives.”

“Do not let him die.”

“Your line will go on, Dunedain. If it is within the power of the Elves, it will never fail.”

“Tell Isildur… tell him he must not forget to honor… those slain here.”

Legolas’s lips moved against Aragorn’s temple. “Honor them yourself and release them from their oaths.”

“Nay. They swore to defend Gondor with their last breaths. Their lives will buy time for my son to escape to safety.”

“Then let them do it of their own will.”

“I am… afraid,” the Man whispered. “What awaits me?”

Abruptly, it struck Legolas what death meant to mortals. When Elendil died, he was lost forever. He would never take a ship from the Grey Havens to be re-united with those that had gone before him. All that he was was gone beyond recall: the brave heart, the strong sword arm, the shrewd mind and the smile that would flash unexpectedly like the Sun through the clouds. Lost forever.

As Aragorn would some day be lost forever.

A pain so great that there was no word for it in Sindarin, or Quenya, smote Legolas’s heart. His muscles seized in a rictus of sorrow that was all consuming. Deaf, dumb and blind, Legolas stumbled across a blasted landscape of blowing ashes. The very earth was charred, the Sun a dull pewter disc in a sky like old oatmeal. There was no light, no water, no soft thing, no comfort. No hope. No reason to live.

Aragorn moved restlessly in the Elf’s ever-tightening embrace. The Heir’s small sound of discomfort jarred Legolas from his trance of despair, reminding him that Aragorn was alive. With redoubled determination to see that his ward kept breathing for as long as possible, the Vigil cradled the young Man to his chest and spoke softly.

“You lived a life of honor, Man of the West. You go to a well deserved rest. Let those that followed you into battle stand and die absolved of all earthly bonds.”

“Thank you.” Aragorn’s mouth relaxed and his breathing evened out. “Let there no longer be any constraint set upon those that fight and die with me today. They are free men that defend their homes and loved ones. May their names be long remembered in the annals of Middle Earth.”

“They shall.”

Aragorn woke disoriented, but soon comprehended that he lay in his Vigil’s arms. In surprise, he started up, but the torrent of released souls that poured around them like a flood around a boulder sent him back to the ground. Legolas sheltered the Heir with his body as Aragorn watched the phantom cavalcade over his shoulder. Swirling like mist in a whirlwind, the wraiths ascended, their pale banners merging with the clouds as they departed westward with the Sun.

“What happened here?” Aragorn asked when the trees were still again.

“Why do insist on asking questions that you know the answers to?”

“Those were the dead soldiers you spoke of,” Aragorn said, as he sat up. “And I released them from their oaths?”

“You did.” Legolas absently plucked a twig from the Heir’s tangled mop. “Do you remember it now?”

Aragorn nodded. “I was there. I saw… I was my ancestor Elendil. So strange to think that such a brave man was so afraid to die. That is not in any of the stories.”

Legolas snorted. “Your Steward would not allow it to be known that Elendil was flesh and blood with all the faults, as well as the virtues, of a Man.”

“Thank you.”

The Vigil frowned. “What do I deserve thanks for?”

“You spoke words of comfort to Elendil, and I was comforted in my nightmare.”

“You will never suffer, if I may prevent it. That is my oath. Now that you are awake, we should resume our journey.”

“Wait,” Aragorn said as the Elf turned away. “Please.”

Legolas turned back to his ward, impatience sharpening his elegant features. “For what do we wait? For your lady mother to get farther away? The Moon is up and we should be off.”

Aragorn swallowed his questions about what had passed between them during the dream, but he knew without doubt that his bond with the Elf was even stronger now. Aragorn could feel the depth of the devotion that belied the Vigil’s sharp words. Without argument, the Heir saddled Roheryn as Legolas removed any trace of their presence in the clearing. It was much more difficult for the former Mirkwood tracker to erase how it had felt to hold Aragorn in his arms.

As Elf and Man resumed their journey, it was not the memory of the freed feos of the ancient army that haunted the Vigil’s thoughts, but the resurrected ghost of an emotion he had thought buried for all time.  
O:::x:::O:::x:::O

“He is from Gondor, I tell you. Look at the blazon on his steed’s blanket.”

“Blanket? Do you call those exquisite trappings a blanket?”

“That is of no significance. He looks like a herald to me.”

“Aye. He is some sort of official. It is logical to think he would have news of the Heir and the Vigil.”

“Shall we ask him?”

“It might save us some time if we know where the Vigil is taking the Heir.”

“Agreed then?”

“Agreed.”  
::x:::x::x:::x::x:::x::

Denethor paced back and forth on the prow of rock that soared above the White City. The Queen was kidnapped, the Heir was missing and neither of the Steward’s sons was there to lend him support. Denethor was alone, as ever, the only one willing to shoulder the odious duties and heavy responsibility of governing a kingdom and its people. How he wished he could arm himself and ride off to battle as he had done in his youth. However, that was best left to Men like Boromir now. Though Denethor despised the necessity, he knew his intellect was much more precious than strength of arms.

Furthermore, Denethor had the fortitude to face the harsh realities of ruling a nation. One could not always afford the luxury of a conscience and honor must sometimes be made to bend for the good of Gondor. Never would the Steward reveal such compromises to his sons. Boromir the warrior would not understand; he would be yawning after the second sentence of explanation. Faramir the idealist would not accept; he would denounce and revile his father for the hard decisions Denethor had been forced to make.

Many times had the Steward despaired of finding one that could take his place when the time came. For it was certain as snow in the North that Aragorn was not fit to rule alone. No matter how diligently Denethor strove to mold the Heir into the leader that Gondor needed, Aragorn fell far short of the mark. The Prince did not possess the necessary ruthlessness that a monarch oftimes required. Aragorn was every bit as soft as Faramir. How had the strain of Elendil become so weak?

Denethor did not know the answer to that question, but he had vowed to place a worthy King on the throne of Gondor, and he would use whatever means necessary to make sure Aragorn was that King. Since the lessons thus far had not produced the desire results, the Steward was altering the form of instruction. That the Heir might go beyond Denethor’s sphere of influence had not occurred to him, however, and so the Steward was left to pace, and wait for word from his network of spies.  
o:::x:::o:::x:::o

“Lady?”

“What is it, boy?”

“Are you wakeful?”

“I am. Please enter.”

The Umbaran slave came into the cabin, his big doe eyes averted so as not to risk an indecorous glance at the captive Queen of Gondor. “It is late, Lady.”

“Have you come to inform me of the very obvious, or do you bring a message from your master, boy? And I cannot keep calling you boy. You must have a name.”

Slender as a hunting hound, the slave bowed gracefully. “I bring a message and I am called Castamir. Will you hear my master’s words now?”

Gilraen smiled slightly. “Castamir? A royal name for a slave.”

“It is not my real name, of course; it merely amuses the captain.”

“So your master and the pirate captain are the same. Give me his message, Castamir.”

“He hopes that you are comfortable and assures you that you will not be harmed. He apologizes for not attending you in person, but he must attend to duty. He wonders if you have any requests, short of your freedom, that might make you more comfortable.”

“May I send a message to my son?” she asked, knowing her wish would not be granted.

“I will ask, Lady,” Castamir murmured diplomatically.

“I thank you. Must you report directly back, or have you a moment to spare? I find that I miss conversation more than I would have deemed possible.”

“Of course, Lady,” the boy said, still avoiding a direct look at the regal captive.

“Will you not sit, Castamir? I will tell no one.”

Gingerly, the lad sat upon a cushion near her feet and waited politely for her to speak again.

“If it is not too tedious, I would like to know a bit about you,” Gilraen said. “I have a son. He’s a young Man by the standards of my Race, much like you in age, and I miss him terribly. Indulge me, will you not?”

“As you wish, Lady,” Castamir said, and answered all of her questions until he was needed elsewhere.

When he finally left the cabin, the Umbaran was in better spirits than he had been in a decade. The Lady listened when he spoke and never once replied condescendingly. She had not belittled his origins, lack of education, or current situation. Indeed, she had expressed sympathy in a most sincere manner, and shared a story of her son when he was a small boy. It was a pity she must be kept caged like an animal, but Castamir did not doubt that she had the courage to attempt an escape if she were free.

Castamir admired the Queen’s spirit and began to wonder what sort of Man her son was.

tbc


	7. Part Seven: baileymoyes — LiveJournal

An LotR a/u  
Rated PG13 this chapter for violence.  
I do not own these characters.  
Thank you, Jean.  
::: : ::: ::: : ::: ::: : :::

  
The Pelargiran cargo ship rounded a bend in the river and the lookout in the crow’s nest sang out a warning. What the soaring, feather leaved trees had prevented him seeing until now was the presence of three Umbaran men-o-war forming a barricade across the Anduin. Boromir drew his sword with a smoking curse and grabbed a handful of the captain’s robe.

“What treachery is this?”

“How have I betrayed you?” the man asked calmly. “Neither I or any of my crew have been out of your sight since you came aboard.”

Boromir released the merchant captain and glanced at Barahir. The lieutenant had the knights arrayed in the bow in a classic flying wedge formation awaiting their captain’s orders. The military vessels stayed put as though anchored, content to let the cargo ship come to them. The Steward’s son considered his options and decided it would be best to put ashore now rather than parley with the Umbarans.

“Look at their flag,” the Pelargiran said, when the warrior turned to him again. “Those are not Corsairs, but ships of the Umbaran Fleet.”

“What is the difference?” Boromir inquired.

“Precious little, but at least they will not attack without cause. Our cargo is bound for the palace. Let me speak with them and they will likely pass us through. If we run, they will surely take us for smugglers.”

“Nay,” Boromir said. “They let the Corsair ship pass; they are no friends to us. You will put us ashore now.”

“As you wish, but the river is not the same here as it is in Gondor. Here there are shallows before you reach the bank. That is why there is no port until you reach the Isle.”

“Just get us as close as you can,” Boromir answered tersely.

As soon as the cargo ship veered toward the eastern bank, one of the military vessels ran out oars and the race had begun. At first it looked as though the Gondorians would gain the shore, but they reckoned without the incentive of Umbaran whips. The slaves below decks rowed with a will, sending the sleek boat slicing through the water on an interception course. Boromir watched the Umbarans come as Barahir supervised the moving of the horses to the far rail. The Umbaran captain held his hand aloft, archers in woven armor raised their bows, and Boromir lifted the Horn of Gondor to his lips. The Umbaran’s hand chopped down, and Boromir blew a great winding call that froze everything but the flying arrows.

The spell broke as the arrows hissed harmlessly into the water beside the Pelargiran’s hull. The horn blast echoed off both banks as Barahir’s ax finished chopping through the rail and the first knight rode over the side. The greathearted steed of Rohan leapt fearlessly out to land with a splash and began swimming strongly for the shore, as another knight followed. The captain of the man-o-war bellowed an order that the Pelargiran translated nervously.

“The next volley will rain fire,” the merchant told Boromir.

Boromir didn’t waste time with an answer, but turned and shouted to Barahir, as the Pelargiran yelled frantically at the Umbarans to hold their fire. The captain of the military ship ignored the transparent ruse and ordered his archers to light their arrows. The knights and the crew of the merchant vessel scrambled over the railings at the flaming hail began to fall upon the decks. Boromir grabbed two sailors attempting to extinguish a burning coil of rope and shoved them bodily overboard. The mainsail caught and began to disintegrate, showering everything below with hot cinders.

“Captain!” Barahir shouted from the ruined rail.

“Go!” Boromir ordered his lieutenant as he took hold of the merchant’s elbow and pulled him toward the side of the boat.

The man resisted, twisting his arm from Boromir’s grasp and running back toward the small cabin. Boromir cursed and started after him, when he felt the first explosion rock the boards under his feet. Leaving the foolish merchant to his fate, the Gondorian heeded Barahir’s urging and dove for the rail. Launching himself with a surge of powerful muscles, Boromir sailed out into space as the cargo erupted with roar like Mount Doom. He had a quick impression of Barahir’s wide-open eyes and mouth and then a giant hand slapped his back, raising him up before sending him plummeting, dazed and barely conscious, into the water with the rest of the burning debris.

Barahir stared in shock at the place the merchant ship had occupied only a moment ago. Mechanically treading water, he searched the fiery flotsam for sign of his captain, but could see no flash of Boromir’s uniform. Another flight of arrows drove the lieutenant below the surface, and he reluctantly swam away from the site of destruction. He caught the tail of Boromir’s stallion and let the animal tow him to the bank. When he reached the shelter of the trees, he found mounted Umbaran soldiers waiting and his companions slain along with their horses. Seeing how it was, Barahir smacked the charger’s haunch and shouted a battle command. The big horse reared, whipping the reins from Barahir’s hand, and turned in place. An arrow glanced off the high cantle of his saddle as the stallion bounded away between the slender trunks, obeying the order to retreat.

Barahir looked at the leader of the Umbarans along the blade of the man’s sword. Without warning, the Gondorian whipped his dagger from his belt and threw it. With astonishing speed, the young Umbaran officer deflected the knife, but suffered a cut to his knuckles. With grudging admiration, the officer bade the archers stay their hands, as he climbed down from his mount. With his own sword, the officer executed the trespasser and gave orders that the Gondorian was to be buried with his weapons. Having honored a worthy opponent, the Umbaran led his troop back downriver to meet his ship, leaving the rest of the knights and their steeds where they lay.  
::: : ::: ::: : ::: ::: : :::

Faramir’s head came sharply as he hearkened to the high, clear ringing sound. “Boromir,” he gasped and pulled his mount’s muzzle from the water.

The destrier blew through its nostrils in a mild complaint as its rider put a foot in the stirrup. Before Faramir could mount, a green clad blur dropped from the trees directly in his path. The highly-strung courier steed shied, knocking the man to the ground, but calmed instantly when the stranger spoke a few liquid sounding words. Faramir looked up from his back, and stared in astonishment.

“You’re an Elf!”

“Indeed. I have his mother’s word for it,” someone said behind the Gondorian.

Faramir spun about to see the mirror image of the first Elf, clad alike in the colors of the forest. “Twins,” the man blurted out.

“I told you that Men could not possibly be as stupid as Legolas thinks they are,” Elladan said in Sindarin.

Elrohir answered in the same tongue. “Your point is taken, but this Man will soon think that the stories of Elven courtesy are but false rumor.”

“I take your point, brother,” Elladan replied as he switched to Westron. “Greetings, Man. We would speak with you and ask you some questions.”

Faramir rose to his feet and caught the trailing reins of his mount. “I have not the time,” he said. “Did you not hear the horn?”

“Quite clearly,” Elrohir said. “It came from farther down the river.” The Elf paused and met his brother’s gaze. “Fire of Orthanc!” they exclaimed simultaneously.

“What are you speaking of?” Faramir asked anxiously.

“Did you not hear the great blast that followed the call of the horn?” Elrohir replied.

“Nay,” Elladan said. “Mortal ears are not so keen.”

“Yet, he heard the horn.”

Elladan nodded. “So he did. How is it, Man, that you heard the winding of the horn?”

“It is the Horn of Gondor, and my brother that winds it. Now let me go to him!”

“Will there be a battle?” Elrohir asked.

“I greatly fear it,” Faramir said. “Boromir would not call for aid unless his need was dire.”

“I would say his need was over, to judge from the sound of that blast,” Elladan remarked, drawing a sharp look from Faramir.

“You do not know my brother,” the Steward’s younger son said. “He has many times won out over odds that seemed impossible.”

The Peredhel exchanged a glance, and Elrohir spoke again. “We are seeking news of the Vigil that was sent to the court of your ruler.”

“Why should I part with such information? You have not yet given me your names, though I may guess them. Are you not the sons of Lord Elrond of Rivendell?”

“And what sort of Man is it that has such knowledge of Elfkind?” Elrohir answered with a question of his own.

“I am Faramir, son of Denethor, Steward of Gondor.”

The twins exchanged a glance, and Elladan spoke. “Then you will surely have the knowledge we seek. You can tell us what you know as we ride.”

“Where are your mounts?” Faramir asked, wasting no time getting in the saddle.

“It was but a manner of speaking,” Elrohir said. “Ride and we will run beside you.”

“As it pleases you, but I shall not tarry,” Faramir said in Sindarin.

Elrohir turned to his brother in surprise. Elladan laughed merrily as he sprang away after the courier, leaving his twin to catch up.  
::: : :::x::: : :::x::: : :::x::: : :::

“What was that?” Aragorn cried out, as Roheryn swerved in sudden agitation.

“It sounded like one of the infernal devices the Enemy has taught the Orcs to make,” the Vigil answered. “But much, much larger than any such weapon I have knowledge of.”

“Perhaps we should go back to the river and have a look,” the young man said diffidently.

“I do not think we should concern ourselves with what is behind us just now,” Legolas answered. “We have made very good time and have a good chance of overtaking the Corsair ship before it reaches home ground. I would advise you to push on.”

Aragorn chewed his lower lip, wishing the Elf would simply order him to continue. His love for his mother bade him ride until he fell from exhaustion, but the thought that the loud explosion might have resulted in injuries drew his compassionate spirit like a lodestone. Since he was a small boy, Aragorn could never bear to witness suffering without making an attempt to remedy the ill. His conscience torn, Aragorn touched heels to Roheryn’s flanks and continued to ride south with the Elf like a shadow at his back.  
::: : ::: ::: : ::: ::: : :::

Gilraen was fully dressed, with her cloak over her arm, when Castamir knocked on the door of her cabin.

“I see you have guessed we are going ashore, Lady,” the slave said.

“The ship no longer moves. I assume we have anchored for a reason, and I hope it means that our voyage is done and I may begin negotiating with your master.”

“I fear I must disappoint you in part, Lady. We are leaving the ship, but my master has already departed. He has urgent business elsewhere just now.”

Gilraen’s silver blue eyes narrowed shrewdly. “He goes to meet with agents of Gondor.”

“That is not for me to say,” Castamir evaded. “I know that messages have been exchanged regarding your ransom, but truly, I do not know the Captain’s plans for you. When first you were brought on board, my master put about the story that he had been paid to take you captive and deliver you to a powerful Western lord. Now I wonder if it is true, or if he was merely trying to put the curious off the scent.”

“I hope to some day make the acquaintance of your master, Castamir. He is a bold and cunning man. If he could be weaned from a life of piracy and persuaded to serve the Crown, he would be a formidable admiral for Gondor’s fleet.”

“And I hope the Lady does not mind if her words were to reach my master’s ears,” the slave murmured. “But come, there is a place prepared for you.”

Gilraen followed the young man onto the deck and was surprised to find it all but empty. Aside from a lookout up in the rigging, and the man at the wheel, she and Castamir appeared to be quite alone. Mindful that she might be the focus of hidden eyes, the Dowager Queen moved with regal dignity to the gangplank and disembarked. Castamir held aside a curtain of the thick foliage that crowded the banks, and Gilraen stepped into a clearing.

In the green light that filtered through the feathery treetops, stood a small dwelling. The wood was unpainted and silvery with age, but it was sound and sturdy, with glazed windows and a porch that wrapped around three sides. Gilraen supposed it must be some sort of smugglers’ outpost for the storage of contraband or sheltering fugitives, and knew she was looking at her new prison.

“Where are the guards?” she asked as Castamir led the way to front door.

“Though you cannot see them, never fear that they are watching, Lady,” the slave said as he opened the door.

Gilraen raised her eyes from the unkempt herb garden to the left of the path. “Will we be here long, do you think?”

Castamir stood aside so that she could enter first. “I cannot say, Lady. I hope it will not be too great a trial for you. I shall be here to see to your comfort in whatever way I can.”

“Will you master not miss the comfort you provide for him?”

“My master will be too busy too take such comfort at present,” Castamir said without blinking. “You are a very clever Lady, and you have rightly guessed that the Captain bought me with more than one purpose in mind.”

“Poor lad,” the Queen said, as she looked about the front room. “Your comeliness must seem a curse to you at times.”

Castamir smiled. “You mistake me, Lady. I prefer a man in my bed. Perhaps there are times that I must serve my master when I would rather not, but I find pleasure in it all the same.”

Gilraen’s wide mouth curved up in a rueful smile. “You have put me to the blush, young Castamir. Pray, show me the rest of our new domain, and we will speak of other matters.”

“As you wish, Lady. I feel no shame.” Castamir gestured to an arched doorway on the right. “There is a kitchen there with a hearth and larder; the well is just outside the kitchen door. Sleeping quarters are in the loft.” Castamir pointed to a ladder in the far corner, and then stamped his foot once. “There is a cellar beneath this trap door, but we will have no reason to go down there. I am afraid that is all of it.”

“It is a more than adequate cage.”

“Are you hungry, Lady? Supplies will be brought before the ship leaves, and I will be able to offer you better fare soon, but for now, will you have some apple?”

Gilraen held out her hand for the wedge of fruit. It was crisp and tart, just as she preferred and she nodded to Castimir to cut more. She frowned when he did not comply immediately, and opened her mouth to ask if he had understood. Her tongue was thick and growing rapidly numb, the taste of fresh apple turning bitter as bile. Gilraen’s eyes flew to Castamir in betrayed shock as he moved to catch her crumpling form. Gently, the slave eased the Queen down to a bench and put her folded cloak under her head.

“Sleep easy, Lady,” he said softly. “Naught shall harm you, and when you wake, it is to be hoped that your ordeal will be concluded.”

Gilraen blinked, and her eyelids stayed down. Castamir sat with her as sailors brought supplies from the ship and left again without exchanging so much as a glance between them. The Corsair ship weighed anchor, and drifted downriver with its skeleton crew.

tbc


	8. Part Eight: baileymoyes — LiveJournal

An LotR a/u  
Rated PG13 for violence.  
I do not own these characters.  
Please see part one for summary.  
::: :: ::: ::: :: ::: ::: :: :::  


“That is Boromir’s horse,” Faramir shouted as the charger pounded out of the trees.

The Elvish brethren separated, calmly watching the steed approach. Elladan called a few soft words and the battle-trained stallion slowed his determined gallop. Elrohir leaped as the horse passed by and landed on his feet atop the broad rump. The charger stopped in sheer surprise, and Faramir rode up to grasp the knotted reins.

“Be at ease,” Faramir said, and his brother’s horse recognized his voice. “I see no blood, but Bralda’s tack is wet, and he would not leave Boromir unless ordered. The horses of Rohan are great of heart and loyal to their masters.”

“He has a brave spirit,” Elrohir agreed as he slid into the saddle and reached down a hand to his brother.

“Bralda,” Faramir said, making a hand gesture. “Take us to your master.”

Elladan clasped his hands around Elrohir’s slim waist as the charger spun about and headed back the way he had come. Faramir’s courser whinnied a challenge and he gave the horse a quiet command. Outracing the wind, the two steeds soon came upon the site of the explosion and the Steward’s drew rein with an oath. Leaping from the saddle, he went to his knees beside the body of a fallen Knight, even as his gaze searched the clearing for any sign of Boromir. His eyes lit on newly turned earth and his heart plummeted. On hands and knees, he scrambled to the grave and began to dig. Seeing his purpose, the Elves dismounted to help him.

“Barahir!” Faramir cried in mingled sorrow and relief.

“It is not your brother?” Elrohir asked.

“Nay. This is Barahir, his second in command. I wonder why his slayer stopped to give him a burial. The other Knights were left as they fell.”

“I do not know Men well enough to answer,” Elladan said. “However, I see no other graves. Surely that must give you hope.”

“Aye, but too much still remains unknown to lay my fears to rest.”

“We are Trackers,” Elrohir spoke up. “We will help you find your brother.”

Faramir looked up in surprise. “Thank you,” he said, as he stood. “It is good of you to postpone your errand for me.”

“We merely wanted to be near by should Legolas need us,” Elladan said.

“You know the Vigil well?”

Elrohir laughed softly. “We are companions of old. Many times we have hunted the foul Orc abroad and wherever they den. Legolas is a fierce and cunning fighter.”

“And that is your highest praise to judge by your tone,” Faramir said as he got back on his horse. “Is there nothing else to admire about Prince Legolas?”

Elrohir caught his brother’s eye, and Elladan smiled slyly. “There might be one or two other things,” Elladan said, “but we can sing praises of his prowess at a more opportune time.”

Faramir nodded. “I must deliver my father’s message to Umbar, yet I can think of nothing but finding Boromir.”

“Carry out your duty,” Elrohir said. “Leave the finding of your brother to us.”

“Thank you,” Faramir said again. “You are right; I must put my oath to the Steward above personal considerations. I will ride on to Umbar, though I leave my heart here with you.”

“So that is a Man,” Elrohir said as Faramir rode away.

Elladan cocked his head to the side. “I did not find him so offensive.”

“Nor I. Indeed, he was quite courteous, though in haste, and his devotion to his brother I find very admirable.”

“As do I.”

“Do we like him then?”

Elladan nodded. “Though it seems as strange as mercy from an Orc, we like this man.”

“Then let us find his brother for him. I would like to see him smile.”

Faramir needed cause to smile as he rounded a wide bend in the river and came suddenly upon the moored Gondorian pursuit vessels. The dark stains that ran down the sides of the hull and the carrion birds that circled overhead told Faramir why he saw no one on deck. The sailors had been ambushed and slaughtered like the Knights, but here Faramir found a clue to the identity of the attackers. The arrows stuck in the wood were not the red and black fletched shafts of Corsairs, but the green and black of the Umbaran Host.

“They were expected,” Faramir muttered to his mount. “Someone knew these ships would be coming after the raiders that took the queen.”

The horse shook its head, harness jingling softly and Faramir looked up in sudden apprehension. From the forest came mounted Umbaran soldiers with drawn bows. In moments, he was surrounded.

“Surrender,” their officer said in his own tongue.

“I am a courier from the court at Minas Tirith,” Faramir replied in Adunaic. “I carry a missive from the Steward to the King of Umbar.”

“And you are counting upon your status as a messenger to gain you safe passage, I suppose?” the officer said.

“Of course. Is it otherwise in Umbar? I had heard you were a civilized nation.”

The officer’s aristocratic features tightened. “You shall judge for yourself, Gondorian. I have an important duty to discharge and cannot escort you to the palace myself, but I will send half my men with you and there it will soon be discovered if you are what you say you are, or a foul spy.”

“My thanks, Captain,” Faramir said pointed courtesy. “Have you noticed any other travelers on the road today?”

“Travelers? No. No travelers,” the captain said, as he turned his horse’s head. “Come. Surely you are anxious to deliver your message.”

“I am, but I am curious. What of these ships?”

“They will be staying here,” the captain said, touching heels to his steed’s flanks and riding away with half the troop.

The rest surrounded Faramir, and he had no choice but to go with them.  
::: :: :::

“Do not move, boy,” Aragorn said, as he stepped from hiding.

Legolas bit back an angry oath, as his charge lowered his weapon. Moving in front of the Heir, Legolas faced the servant. The slave put down the bucket of water and slowly raised his arms so the Elf could see that he was not armed.

“Who dwells here?” the Vigil asked curtly.

“Only my mistress and I. Who are you? I have never seen anyone like you.”

“My companion is an Elf,” Aragorn said, moving around Legolas. “You call them the Fair Folk, I believe, in Umbar, for I perceive you are dressed as an Umbaran slave though that is not the tattoo of a slave.”

Gritting his teeth, the Vigil again placed himself between his charge and the Umbaran. “Who are you, boy?”

“My name is Castamir. I was taken captive some years past by the Corsair King. Just now I am doing his bidding by serving a Lady.”

Aragorn was walking toward the cottage before the lad finished speaking, a wild hope flaring in his heart. The Elf’s command stopped him before he reached the porch.

“Have you lost your wits?” Legolas demanded as he pulled the slave boy to where Aragorn stood. “Does it not occur to you that this might be a trap?”

“There are none here but the Lady and myself,” Castamir said.

“I did not bid you speak.” Legolas tightened his grip on the boy’s arm and addressed Aragorn again. “You will stay here and guard this slave while I go inside.”

Seeing the sense of the Vigil’s words, Aragorn came to stand beside Castamir. The Elf drew his sword and Aiglosithil glittered in a sudden shaft of sunlight that penetrated the canopy of leaves. The sight of the weapon sobered the Heir, and though he wanted to dash into the dwelling, he did as his guardian bade him.

Legolas found the Queen asleep, but could not rouse her. Sheathing his sword, he gathered her up in his arms and went to the door. Before he could call out to Aragorn that Gilraen was safe, he heard hoof beats approaching. Realizing the humans were as yet unaware that company was coming, he set the sleeping woman carefully down just inside the entrance and dashed outside.

“Your Highness,” the Vigil shouted, and the slave looked at Aragorn with renewed interest. “Get inside the house.”

Aragorn looked up from his conversation with the foreigner. “What is amiss?”

“Riders,” the Elf replied tersely. “Get inside; your Lady mother awaits you.”

Without another word, Aragorn ran into the cottage with Castamir close behind. Legolas backed to the doorway, reaching it just as the first horseman appeared in the clearing. The Umbaran captain’s gaze lit upon the Elf and he hesitated, clearly not expecting to find anyone here. Legolas had unlimbered his bow and nocked an arrow before the officer regained his composure enough to give orders. An Elven shaft pierced his throat even as he drew breath to speak. The five soldiers under his command slid from their saddles, using their mounts as shields, as more feathered missiles flew. As soon as they reached the trees, the Umbarans took out their bows and returned fire. Legolas slammed the door as three arrows struck the wood and Aragon look up from the floor.

“I cannot wake her,” the Heir said.

“That is not of primary concern just now, Your Highness,” the Elf said. “Pick her up and come with me.”

Aragorn did as he was told, following the Vigil to the back of the house. Legolas drew back his gloved fist and punched the wall, making a hole in it. As he peered out, he saw an Umbaran warrior taking up position behind a smooth barked tree. Spitting out a vile curse, the Elf spun about and met the eyes of his companions.

“We must shed more blood if we are not to be taken captive,” Legolas said.

“What an odd thing for you to say,” Aragorn murmured as he touched Gilraen’s cheek.

“Do you imagine that I enjoy violence?”

“You give every appearance of it.”

The Prince of Mirkwood swallowed the retort that rose like lava in his throat. “Your words shame me,” he said softly. “My mother taught me to revere all life. When I kill, I believe that I do it for a greater good, but perhaps that is only what I tell myself.”

“Forgive me,” Aragorn said. “I spoke without thinking.”

Legolas glanced at the unconscious woman in Aragorn’s arms. “You have cause for distraction,” he said, his tone becoming brisk again. “But you must put your mother’s plight from your mind just now. Soon we shall be under attack, and I shall need you to be alert.”

The Heir straightened his shoulders and looked into the Vigil’s eyes. “I shall do my best.”

The Elf nodded and turned to the slave. “Boy. What will you do when the Umbarans attack?”

“I am no warrior,” Castamir said. “With your leave, I will watch over the lady.”

Legolas held the young man’s gaze for several moments and then bound the slave’s hands behind his back. Castamir did not protest, but sank down to the floor beside the Queen. Aragorn looked as though he wanted to say something, but he knew it would be foolish to trust the Umbaran. Anything the Heir might have said was forestalled when the door rattled on its hinges. From the back of the small dwelling came the sounds of splintering wood. Aragorn jumped to his feet, drawing his sword as Legolas fired an arrow through the hole he had made. A cry of pain gave proof of the Elf’s accuracy, and the hammering stopped on that side of the cabin. The door burst inward and the Vigil’s next shot took the intruder through the eye. The soldier pitched backward, knocking down the man behind him. Legolas dropped his bow and leaped forward with his sword in hand.

Aragorn stood over his mother with his naked blade clutched tightly in his fist and watched the Vigil cut down two Umbarans in the doorway. The Elf was a whirlwind of shining steel, supple limbs and flying hair harvesting two souls with a minimum of movements almost too fast for the eye to follow. The slave huddled at Gilraen’s feet, his eyes wide as he watched the alien warrior slay another soldier as easily as Castamir would flick an insect. Never in his short, but peril-fraught, life with the Corsairs had Castamir seen such a fighter. With an army of Fair Folk, even he could conquer the world.

The slave’s wild thoughts were halted when something else caught his interest. “My lords!” he shouted, as the trap door to the smugglers’ cellar flew open.

tbc  



	9. Part Nine: baileymoyes — LiveJournal

An LotR alternate universe tale.  
Rated: PG13 for violence.  
These characters belong to the Professor, but he sometimes lets Maryanne play with them.  
A/N: I’m trying out a different header to include a teaser line.  
:::x:::o:::x:::o:::x:::

The prisoner groaned and tried once again to stretch and ease his cramped muscles. He was bound in such a way that   
movement tightened the cords and the knots dug into sensitive areas, but the position was so uncomfortable that he was driven to seek relief. It was a devilish and uniquely Eastern form of torture that the Knight had not encountered before. However, the insidious torment was as nothing to the humiliation of capture, and the idea that he might have to be ransomed was almost too shameful to bear.

A key turned in the lock with a hollow clanking and the door to the cell swung open. The prisoner blinked in the wedge of light that fell across his face and tried to focus on his visitor. All he could tell was that the man was tall, but not full fleshed. The voluminous robes hung on the gaunt frame like a shroud on a skeleton. A near naked, lantern-bearing slave entered, and the captive suppressed his reaction to his visitor’s ruined face. Everything below the eyes was a mass of shiny lumps and fissures like melted candle wax.

“My master is not a pretty sight,” said the slave. “But you control yourself better than most, Westron. Before you were stripped, you wore the sigils of the House of Hurin. Are you kin to the Steward of Gondor?”

Boromir glared at the two men.

“Your defiance is to be expected,” the young man said. “Your identity will soon be found out, and then the decision will be made to execute you, or hold you for ransom. The captain that captured you believes you to be the great warrior Boromir, Captain of the Guard of Minas Tirith. My master wonders how it is that such a legendary fighter was taken so easily?”

The knots cut painfully into Boromir’s flesh as he reacted to the question. With a satisfied smile, the servant looked up at his master. The burned man nodded and the comely slave spoke again, his pleasant voice more suited to a seraglio than a cell.

“You may call me Romen, though that is not my name. I am my master’s voice and…”

“And just who might your master be?” Boromir interrupted.

The slave boy smiled again. “One with the power of life and death over you.”

“You are a most insolent thrall. Is the arrogance your master’s or your own?”

Romen laughed, the merry sound shocking echoes from dank corners of the dismal cell. “My master likes you, Westron, and says that I have indeed become saucy in my privileged position. Would it please you to know he will discipline me?”

“Not really.”

“Then would it please you to know I was lying about my punishment?”

Boromir gave the slender young man another glare. Distracted, he did not see the other moving until it was too late. Something cold and wet touched the Gondorian’s neck and the world began to fall away from him at a rapid rate.

“Do not be afraid,” Romen said, his dark eyes liquid with compassion. “This will be a trial of the flesh only. You are a warrior and will make light of physical pain. It is what comes after that you should fear, but there will be time enough for that.”

The slave glanced aside as the tall man drew a sickle shaped dagger from his dark robes. Boromir’s eyes followed the glittering blade as his muscles went slack, one by one. He could see and hear and feel, but he could not speak or move. He could only lie helpless as the steel drew ever closer and it got harder to breathe.

“The drug is distilled from berries that grow in Mordor,” Romen said. “It produces an effect much like the venom of the giant spiders.”

Boromir’s heartbeat tripled in helpless horror as the Umbaran drew the tip of the knife very deliberately over his skin, tracing runes of power in red, red ink. The Gondorian wanted to scream for the first time in life as the scarlet arabesques began to smoke, the beads of blood boiling as they welled up from the cuts. His sight dimmed, or the light in the chamber fled, as the very particles of air seemed to take on weight. Charged with dread, the atmosphere thickened until Boromir could barely draw it into his lungs.

“The tribute has been made in blood,” Romen said in a voice as sweet and alluring as wild honey. “More do we offer if our questions be answered.”

“Ask.” A great, hollow voice rang out like a brazen bell caused the stones of the walls to grind together.

In dismay, Boromir listened as the voice gave the Umbarans the details of his mission. All the while, his skull ached as though an Oliphant was standing on it. In the descending darkness, a wheel of flame spun toward him, searing his brain. It stopped and he saw that it was a great eye, burning in the utmost night, seeking, seeking, and he cowered in fear that it might focus its regard on him. After an eternity, he was released from the terrible pressure that threatened to crush his mind and leave him mad. With a gasp, he drew a deep breath like a drowning man pulled from the sea.

“Thank you,” Romen was saying. “One hundred more Umbaran soldiers will be sent to you.”

Brightness crept back into the cell and Boromir could not recall when he had taken more joy in the simple presence of light. Not since he was a very small boy had he been so utterly terrified of something he could not see.

“The dark one is gone,” the slave boy assured the warrior. “I am afraid I misled you somewhat concerning the trial you faced, but there is truly no way to describe the experience beforehand. Wouldn’t you agree, Westron?”

Boromir did not answer. These two had seen him reduced to a sack of quivering guts and his vaunted strength had been of no use, had not spared him one speck of misery, or kept his captors from learning all his secrets. He was disgraced and dishonored, and he sank farther into the quicksand of despair with each passing moment. How could he fight against sorcery? He was defeated before he began.

With a nod of satisfaction, the cadaverous wizard put a hand on the slave’s bare shoulder and squeezed gently. The boy looked up at his master, and a message was passed.

“Hearken, Westron, and hear your fate,” Romen said. “You are Captain Namir’s prisoner and as such you will be displayed on the steps of the palace to his greater glory. Namir is a hero, and the capture of a spy will elevate him in the eyes of the people. This pleases my master for he is grooming Namir for a high position. As for your Queen… I can tell you that she is not here in the palace. Does that ease your mind?”

There was no sound except for a small indeterminate noise that might have been a sob.

“I see,” said the lissome slave. “I suppose there is really nothing more to say then.”

The boy called out and two hulking guards entered. Orders were given for the Gondorian to be untied and chained to the doors of the palace. Boromir hung limp between the soldiers as he was carried away. By the time the drug wore off, the Knight was shackled hand and foot, spread eagle against one of the many cast bronze doors of the royal bastion in the heart of the City of the Corsairs.  
:::v:::x:::v:::x:::v:::

“Aragorn!” the Vigil roared as he threw himself across the room.

The Heir spun as the last Umbaran soldier sprang from the trap door in the cottage floor. Castamir shrank back, covering the unconscious Queen with his body, as the warrior swung his scimitar in a whistling arc. The blade narrowly missed taking off the top of Aragorn’s head as the Elf slammed into him, knocking him to the floor. The curved sword struck flinders from the wooden planking as Legolas rolled his charge out of harm’s way. The Elf came up on his feet and swayed aside from cut aimed at his kidneys. Castamir dragged Gilraen from under Legolas’s boots putting himself in the Vigil’s path. As the Elf fought for balance, the Umbaran moved in for a killing blow.

Aragorn stood frozen as the scimitar swept toward Legolas. He knew he must help the Elf, but he could not make his muscles obey. Telling himself that he hung back to defend the Queen, Aragorn chewed his lower lip in a paroxysm of indecision. When the Umbaran opened a cut on the reeling Vigil’s upper arm, Aragorn lunged forward with a strangled cry. The soldier dropped his weapon with a look of rank surprise as the point of Aragorn’s sword appeared just under his breastbone. Legolas regained his footing and a sweep of a long knife stopped the Umbaran’s breath for good. The warrior toppled to the floor yanking the hilt from the Heir’s hand. Legolas bent and deftly retrieved the blade, offering it to Aragorn. The Heir stared at the bloodstained steel as though bespelled.

“Take it!” the Vigil insisted. “We do not know if more of them are coming.”

Aragorn wrapped his numb fingers around the handgrip. The superbly balanced weapon was heavy as stone in his hand, and he nearly dropped it. Turning blindly, his boot struck something soft and Castamir whimpered in pain. Aragorn stared down at the boy as though trying to remember where he’d seen him before.

“Master,” Castamir said. “Are we safe now?”

“That is a question none of us can answer,” Legolas broke in. “Aragorn? Are you well?”

Aragorn turned toward the Elf, his eyes hollow and staring. “I am…” Abruptly, the Heir bent and emptied his stomach into the cellar.

Legolas deplored the delay, but the sight of his charge spewing his guts brought him to Aragorn’s side. Gently, he touched the young man’s back, brushing the long hair out of the way as he spoke.

“We have no time for this. These soldiers may be a scouting party for a troop. For you mother’s sake, Aragorn; you must be strong.”

Aragorn wiped his sleeve across his mouth. “I am all right,” he said in a small voice.”

Legolas nodded approval. “Come, your highness. Can you carry the Lady?”

Aragorn nodded. He was still pale, but his hands did not shake as he lifted Gilraen in his arms and followed the Vigil. Almost unnoticed, Castamir trailed in their wake as they made their stealthy way back to their horses. Not until Aragorn was mounted with the Queen held before him did the slave boy speak.

“Take me with you, masters.”

“No,” Legolas replied shortly.

“We cannot leave him here,” the Heir said.

“Of course we can. This is where we found him, and this is surely where his master will seek him. If you wish, I can make sure he does not speak of us.”

Aragorn’s eyes widened. “Of course I do not wish that. Castamir shielded my mother when the Umbarans attacked. I think his actions deserve reward, not punishment.”

Legolas tilted his head to one side as he regarded the Heir. “Very well,” he said. “If that is what you wish.” Reaching down a hand, the Elf hauled Castamir up behind him. “Betray us, boy,” the Elf said softly. “And there will be no place in Middle Earth you can hide from me.”

“I understand, master,” Castamir answered, putting his arms around the Elf’s waist.

With another glance at Aragorn, Legolas touched heels to the Elven steed’s sleek flanks and the beautiful animal set out at a trot. The Heir followed close behind, thanking all the powers there were that his mother was alive and seemingly unharmed. When they got her back to Minas Tirith, they would send for Mithrandir. He would know how to break this evil spell that the Queen was under. Ignoring the irrational displeasure of seeing Castamir holding onto the Vigil so tightly, Aragorn concentrated on what he would say to the Castellan when they returned to Minas Tirith.  
::: :: :::

The officer in charge of the gate guards of the City of the Corsairs took but one glance at the crest stitched on Faramir’s tabard and got into an argument with the sergeant leading the escort. It was the officer’s opinion that Faramir should be whisked off to the palace with all pomp. The sergeant had orders to keep the Gondorian at the gate until his captain arrived from his detour to the smugglers’ way house. The name of the national hero Namir was more than familiar to the officer, but he also recognized a nobleman when he saw one and this Westron was noble to the bone. After nearly a candlemark of standing under the searing midday sun, Faramir deployed his limited knowledge of Adunaic.

“Sirs. I am an official courier of Gondor. Please take me to the palace.”

The gate officer crossed his arms over his broad chest and gave the sergeant a look of triumph. With scant grace, the sergeant shrugged his willingness to shift responsibility, managing to convey that any blame for wrongdoing now belonged to the officer. The officer wavered but a moment. He did not wish to incur the ill will of a famous warrior such as Namir, but his slavish adherence to protocol demanded he send this messenger on to the palace. A contingent of city militia on foot assembled in front of the mounted soldiers and led the way down the main thoroughfare.

“This means nothing,” the sergeant said to Faramir. “You are still Captain Namir’s prisoner and he will decide what is to be done with you.”

“I think your ruler might have something to say about that.”

The sergeant chuckled. “The captain is brother to the king. Though they have different mothers, they are even closer than full blooded brothers.”

Faramir looked away from the man’s smug leer and caught his breath at his first sight of the residence of the Corsair King. From the large square before it, a sweep of stairs like a frozen waterfall led up to the sprawling pile of dark stone. The many doors in the front wall were made of cast bronze and nearly every surface of the black rock was decorated with filigrees, inlays, brackets and cladding of the same metal buffed to a silky patina. The sheer hours of labor involved in keeping the ornamentation polished staggered the Steward’s son. It reminded him that slavery was legal in Umbar, as his gaze traveled to the small crowd gathered on the left wing of the covered entrance. Quickly, he turned back to the sergeant, hoping the man hadn’t noticed his shock.

“Weak stomach?” the Umbaran soldier sneered. “That man’s fate might well be your own.”

“Perhaps, but I doubt it will be up to you,” Faramir answered.

“True enough,” the sergeant said as the foot soldiers stopped at the bottom of the stairs. “Captain Namir will decide your fate.” The Umbaran ran his gaze down to Faramir’s boots and back up. “You are a comely man, and the Captain is fond of comely men. Maybe he will keep you alive and whole to serve his pleasure. You can dismount now.”

A bit shaken by this speech, Faramir got down from the saddle and reluctantly gave his courser’s reins into the hands of a waiting slave. His courier’s pouch he slung over his shoulder as he prepared to follow his new escort. The sergeant bid him farewell with a rude gesture and a lewd smile. Faramir turned away and concentrated on climbing the steps without giving into the temptation to stare at the man bound to the door. His every instinct warned him that his interest would seal the prisoner’s fate. Resolutely, he kept his eyes on his footing and was soon swallowed up by the ancient palace that was home to one of the most feared rulers in the civilized lands.

tbc


	10. Part Ten: baileymoyes — LiveJournal

An LotR A/U rated PG13 for violence.  
Disclaimer: These are not my wonderful characters and I do not profit by their use.  
My thanks to Jean.  
::: :: ::: ::: :: :::

“Here,” Legolas turned his mount’s head and rode down the riverbank.  
  
“The Anduin will get narrower but it will also become faster. We will swim across here. Once we are on the western side, we will leave the road for the wood.”

Aragorn did not speak, but concentrated on making it down the slope without letting Gilraen slide from his arms. He hoped that once they were over the river in Pelargir, the Elf might call a halt. He was wearier than he had ever been in his life and could not focus long enough to count how many hours it had been since he’d slept. The Vigil seemed not to feel the need for rest, or food, or tears. It seemed as though Aragorn had been staring for an eternity at the long tail of the Elf’s steed. As the Heir raised his head with an effort, Castamir looked back, his fine features drawn with fatigue. Meeting Aragorn’s eyes, the slave gave him a sympathetic look.

“Legolas,” Aragorn called, when they reached the other side. “We mere mortals must stop for rest soon.”

“I would prefer to be farther away before stopping,” the Elf said without turning around.

Castamir looked back again as they neared the trees and cried out in alarm. Legolas was already turning his steed, alerted by the bond between the Heir’s feo and his. He brought his mount up beside Aragorn’s and caught the Queen as the Prince slumped in the saddle.

“Change horses,” the Vigil said curtly and Castamir nimbly moved to sit behind Aragorn. “Give me the reins and see that he stays in the saddle.”

The Umbaran nodded his understanding of the Elf’s commands, wrapping his arms around the Prince. Castamir would make sure Aragorn didn’t fall, not from fear of the fair one, but because he was the Lady’s son. Queen Gilraen had treated the boy with more respect and kindness than anyone in his life heretofore. Ignoring the sharp, warning look the Elf directed at him, Castamir devoted his remaining energy to keeping Aragorn upright.

“Thank you,” Aragorn whispered.

“I thought you had fainted,” the boy said in surprise.

“Nay, it was merely a subterfuge to convince our good Elf to take some pity on us.”

Castamir hid his grin against the Heir’s cloak. As the lissome slave pressed against Aragorn’s back, the Prince felt the evening sun take on an extra degree of heat. A bit flustered, he held tight to the pommel and tried not to think about the effect the boy was having on him. The idea of two males laying together did not repel him, but he had never imagined himself as one of those sorts of men. It was taken for granted that he would marry a highborn maiden and provide Heirs for Gondor. There was no question of any other destiny for him; it had been decided long before he was born to wonder why things were the way they were. He was too curious for good wisdom, as the Steward was wont to say. It would be better for everyone if he simply did what was expected him. In the meantime however, he allowed himself to feel pleasure in the nearness of a warm, attractive body.

“Your Highness,” Castamir said, jarring Aragorn from a near doze. “We are stopping.”

The slave jumped down and hurried to help Legolas lower the Queen to the ground. Gilraen’s strong, beautiful features were serene, as though she floated upon the bosom of the Isen on the back of a giant swan. Aragorn spread his cloak upon the moss and tenderly lifted his mother to lie upon the sable velvet. Fervently, he beseeched the Valar to wake her from her sorcerous sleep, but her eyelids stayed down and her hand was cool and limp in his. When he looked away, he saw Castamir sorting the items in the saddlebags, but the Elf was nowhere in sight.

“Here,” Legolas said from close behind Aragorn.

Aragorn leaped to his feet, his hand going to the hilt of his sword.

“Good,” the Vigil said. “I was afraid you might be a coward.”

The Prince drew a deep breath to voice a hot retort, but it came out as a sob. Drawing another shuddering lungful of air, he tried again, but he was nearly at the end of his endurance. To his chagrin, he felt scalding tears well up in his eyes and overflow. Once again, he was reduced to weeping in front of the Elf.

“I… I am not a coward,” he choked out.

“Neither are you quick to act, when boldness is called for.”

Aragorn bowed his head in shame. “I am sorry. It is just that… I have never had to kill anyone before.” His voice broke. “It is… distressingly simple.”

The Vigil paused before he answered. “I had not considered that,” he said. “I beg your pardon. If I had my wish, you would never have the need to kill again. Are you well?”

“I cannot stop thinking about the man I robbed of life. He might be married and have children that depend upon him, that will wait in vain for him to return to them.”

“Your Highness,” Legolas put a hand on the Heir’s shoulder, and spoke warrior to warrior. “The man you slew was a soldier. He took vows to king and country to live or die in service. The time to think of a wife and children is before the swearing of oaths.”

“You will tell me that he knew the risks before he took up the sword,” Aragorn said. “But what if this was the only employment he was suited for?”

“I have no head for statecraft, as my sire is often pleased to observe,” the Elf said. “My answer to your question would be to learn a craft other than warfare.”

“It is not always so simple,” Aragorn launched into one of his favorite topics. He seldom got to speak for very long on the subject before the listener yawned or scoffed at his youthful idealism. However, the Vigil stood in respectful silence and weighed each of the Prince’s words carefully. Delighted, Aragorn elaborated on his dream of Gondor restored to her former glory, before taxes, when citizens tithed out of loyalty and love of their nation, and the troubling thoughts of the dead soldier were forgotten for a while.

“Masters,” Castamir called softly. “Will you have some food?”

Aragorn realized how hungry he was. “What do you suppose he means by food?” he asked the Elf lightly.

“The way fare that was in our saddlebags,” Legolas answered.

“You are so very literal,” the Prince said. “Do Elves not joke?”

“Of course we do, but when we do, we have the grace to be amusing.”

“I should stop trying to predict what you will do or say,” Aragorn sighed. “It is not possible.”

“At least you have gained that much wisdom,” the Elf said. “Go and eat. I will stand guard.”

The Vigil watched his charge walk away and the weary set of the Man’s shoulders made his heart ache with the need to comfort him. Resolutely, Legolas stood where he was, fingernails digging into his palms, and resisted the pull of the bond that grew stronger with every hour spent in the Heir’s presence. Moments ago, he had been a breath away from taking the young man into his arms in a fierce embrace. The echo of the wild longing that accompanied the desire to protect still throbbed in his groin. Legolas knew he was willful to a fault, but he did not know how long he could withstand this compulsion toward physical closeness. And he must for he knew in his bones that it would destroy them both.

“Master?”

The Elf gestured to Castamir to come closer.

“Do you not wish to eat?” the slave asked. “I have brought you some of the dried fruit.”

“Why do you see to my comfort?”

“Perhaps it is my nature, or my training, or the fact that you can keep me alive. Choose one, Master Elf, whichever it pleases you to believe.”

“You are not so young as you appear,” Legolas said.

“Nor am I innocent. Forgive my boldness, Master, but I know many ways to give comfort.”

“Do not call me master. It does not please me.”

Castamir looked up at the Elf from under his long eyelashes. “Is there aught about me that does please you?”

“Your face and form are very pleasing. I would enjoy topping you, but I am on sentry duty.”

“You are always on sentry duty, if you will forgive my saying it.”

“I am a slave as well,” Legolas held up the hand that bore the ring. “To this. Unlike you, I chose my fate.”

“Do you wish you could change it?” Castamir leaned closer.

Legolas inhaled the subtle scent of the herbs the slave used to wash his hair. “Of course. Who does not wish for the power to change his fate?”

Aragorn took a slow step backward, and then another one. When he was far enough away from the Elf and the Umbaran, the Prince turned and walked rapidly back to the camp. He had been a fool to think Legolas had really been interested in his dreams, or that the Elf would want to hear more about them. It was plain that Aragorn was an iron collar around the Vigil’s neck, and that Legolas would be rid of the burden if he could. As it was plain that Castamir wasn’t the least bit interested in Aragorn either. The young man’s cheeks grew warm as his imagination supplied him with vague visions of what the other two might be doing right now. After all, had the Elf not as much as said he preferred his own sex? And there could be no mistaking the Umbaran’s willingness.

Exhausted in body and spirit, the Prince sank to his knees beside the Queen. He took up her hand in both of his and brought it to his breast. Ruthlessly, he shut his dreams away. What significance could they possibly have while his mother lay bound under a sorcerous spell? He wished with all his heart that he could stop time for just a little while so he could rest, really rest for once. Since the moment of his birth, he had borne the responsibility for the welfare of the Kingdom of Gondor. Every hour of his life was accounted for and nowhere was there time set aside for what he wanted. There was only duty like an endless gray tunnel stretching into the future, becoming ever narrower until he was trapped for all time, a living martyr to his bloodline.  
::: :: ::: ::: :: ::: ::: :: :::

As they walked, Faramir inclined his head to the Corsair King’s majordomo and accepted the gracious welcome to the palace. As he was informed that ruler could not see him today, Faramir caught a glimpse into the throne room they were passing by. The tall, cadaverous figure on the black swathed throne above a kneeling throng of supplicants was every bit as sinister and forbidding as the Steward’s son had pictured. He gave his attention back to the court official as they came to the end of the long hallway and stopped. The majordomo gestured to the doorway before them.

“This room is set aside for your use,” said the Umbaran. “Please be so good as to wait here until His Majesty has time for you. Refreshments will be brought to you and there is a couch you may lie upon.”

“Thank you. You are most gracious,” Faramir said with a small bow.

The majordomo ran an interested eye over the Gondorian. “My informants tell me that you were brought here by Captain Namir’s men. I am terribly curious as to your errand here.”

Faramir bowed again. “I am sure you understand that I cannot speak of my mission to anyone before I have seen the King.”

“I understand completely. Fortunately, I have no compunction about telling you that Captain Namir despises Westrons. If he returns to the City before you see His Majesty, your courier status may not be any protection.”

“I cannot believe that your King would violate the law of safe passage for heralds.”

“There are many spies on the roads these days,” the Umbaran shrugged. “Rest well.”

Faramir doubted he would get any rest as he entered the pleasant chamber and reflected on the majordomo’s warning. When he had taken this task upon himself, he had been hurt and angry with his father, but he had considered the dangers he would face and accepted them. However, he had counted upon those in power to honor the immunity of couriers. What had so changed in the ruling house of Umbar that raiders would risk war by abducting Gondor’s Queen, or would feel no compunction about flouting the accords that all civilized nations observed? These were questions that would have to wait; just now, Faramir was set on making an unescorted tour of the palace.

As soon as the long shadows merged into one and became night, the Steward’s younger son went out to the enclosed courtyard beyond his room. There were doors the other three walls, but Faramir ignored them. Moving swiftly to the south side of the little garden, he clambered up a thick hanging mat of vines. From the wall, he gained the roof and headed unerringly for the front of the palace, his heart in his throat each time he hid from a guard. His heart was pounding like the falls of Rauros by the time he reached the outer wall and crawled out on the portico roof. Seeing no sentries, he swung down, dropping the last three feet to land in a crouch. The stone of the porch still held the heat of the day as he scurried over them into the deep shadow of one of the bronze doors. Praying he had been mistaken, Faramir rose beside the prisoner chained to the portal. As he lifted the man’s drooping head, a smoking curse broke from his lips.

“Such language from our little scholar,” Boromir wheezed.

“What have they done to you?” Faramir gasped in horror. “I was not even sure it was you.”

“Now that you know; do you intend to do something? I am growing weary of hanging here.”

Faramir’s eyes filled with tears at this proof of his brother’s indomitable spirit. With shaking fingers, he examined the chains and the brackets they were attached to. Frantically, he searched his pouch for anything he could use on the iron fittings.

“It is no use,” Boromir whispered. “They closed the links with hammers. You cannot free me without waking half the city.”

“Then I shall. And I shall also demand that you be released.”

“Faramir, no. I have seen the King and he will not listen to reason. The practice of sorcery has been revived, and devils are offered tribute of the blood and souls of Umbaran soldiers. You see what they did to me. These are a people sunk far into evil.”

“I do not know what to do,” Faramir muttered, as he absorbed Boromir’s words. “I must think of a way to free you, but my wits do not avail me here. I cannot convince the iron to release you with a clever argument.”

“Brother,” Boromir turned his face to the moonlight and Faramir’s stomach rolled over as he saw the real extent of the damage done to flesh and bone. “It is enough that I am not alone in this hour. I am not afraid to die here, but…”

Faramir put his arms carefully around his brother as Boromir’s broken body was wracked by deep sobs. The young man was acutely aware of how their roles had been reversed and it was he offering his strength to Boromir. Faramir was glad to repay Boromir for all the times in their childhood when his older brother had taken his part, or dried his tears. For once, Boromir needed him, and Faramir made a silent vow that he would not fail. He would do whatever he must to stop Boromir’s suffering.

“Brother,” Faramir murmured in Boromir’s ear. “Could you walk were you free?”

“I would try,” came the answer, and Faramir’s heart sank even lower.

Even if a way could be found to break the chains, he would have to carry Boromir. And to where? Back to his room? To the stables, if he could find them? Down the streets of a city as large as Gondor and unfamiliar to him? He did not like any of those choices.

“Faramir? Have you a dagger?”

“I have a knife in my pouch, but it will be no use here. It is for cutting off wax seals and such. It would snap against this iron.”

“I do not want you to use it on the chains.”

Faramir drew back and looked into his brother’s moon silvered eyes. “You cannot ask this of me,” he said gravely. “I love you more than any living thing. I cannot end your life.”

“Look at me, brother. I am nearly dead. Have mercy and finish it.”

“There must be another way.”

“There is not, or you would have thought of it. You are the cleverest man I have ever known, little brother. You know that you must walk away from me and do your best to stay alive. Aragorn will need you at his side when he takes the throne. For it is clear to me that Gondor will soon be at war, and our enemies have allied themselves with the Dark.”

The tracks of tears glimmered on Faramir’s cheeks as he nodded. “I know, and it is bitter wisdom,” he said, reaching into his pouch.

Boromir lifted his head bravely and Faramir did not see the gore crusted cuts, the lumps and bruises left by stones, the raw, blistered skin or the dislocated limbs. He saw a Knight of Gondor, tall and proud, unafraid of his fate. Faramir put the point of the tiny blade under Boromir’s chin and gathered his courage.

“What are you doing there?” Someone said at Faramir’s shoulder.

tbc


	11. Part Eleven: baileymoyes — LiveJournal

An LotR A/U.  
Rated NC17 to be safe.  
I do not own these characters, nor do I profit by their use.  
Thank you, Jean.  
::: :: : :: :::

Denethor staggered from the tower chamber and passed the Guards without seeing them.  The soldiers of the Citadel kept their eyes forward, but in their hearts they wondered if the Steward was not driving himself too hard. The Heir’s chief advisor was gray of face and unsteady of step as he left the hallowed precincts of the Tower of Ecthelion. It seemed to Denethor that all his careful planning had gone awry. In the seeing stone, Boromir’s watery death had been revealed, and the Steward had also seen his other son in the custody of Umbaran troops. Of the Heir, Denethor could descry nothing, but it had always been thus. Those of Elendil’s line were ever hidden from the Great Enemy.

Down the curving road he trudged, turning at the gates of the Rath Dinen and entering the serene domain of the dead. Stopping at Hurin’s tomb, Denethor laid his forehead against the cold marble of the sarcophagus and brought his despairing thoughts under rigid control. He should have foreseen that Boromir would pursue the Corsairs rather than merely patrolling the river road. He should even have guessed that Faramir would take on the role of courier in a fit of resentful reproach. But never would he have guessed that the Heir would so flout the wishes and authority of his mentor. It was that creature, the Vigil that had led the Prince astray, and when, Denethor did not accept if, Aragorn returned to the City, the Steward would make certain he was separated from the Elf.

His grand scheme for returning Gondor to pre-eminence in the affairs of Middle Earth would be moving smoothly into the second stage were it not for the addition of the Vigil to the factors that Denethor must figure with. The Elf was a wild element, unpredictable, and he had no place on the Steward’s chessboard if he were not willing to play the pawn. Gondor had already lost a Queen and her chief Knight, and Denethor was not sure what his next move should be. It seemed once again that his best option was to wait and see what transpired before he was forced to tip his hand. He still had hope that all would fall out as he wished and Gondor would gain a King wiser with much chastening, a King that could see the value of a trusted advisor, a King willing to be guided.

“My wise and mighty forefather,” Denethor whispered. “How I wish I might have been born in the days of the Second Age when Isildur was a young man and all the world gave homage to Gondor and Minas Tirith, Queen of Cities, was the center of all policies. But I swear to you, that was the first Steward, I will see those days come again.”

Pushing away from the great catafalque of cold stone, Denethor pulled the voluminous, fur-lined robe more closely around him as he gathered up his resolve to see this thing through. Armored within and without, the Steward returned to the palace to take up his many tasks. Despite his clear-eyed determination, the fact that he could not find Gilraen with the seeing stone pricked his conscience with cold needles of dread. Those who served the Steward walked softly that day and did their best not to add to the great man’s burden.

::: :: :+: :: :::

Faramir did not stop to think when he heard a noise behind him. He spun with the tiny utility dagger held ready to defend his injured brother against their discoverers. His courage was for naught for he saw no one as he peered into the torch-lit darkness. A puff of air kissed his cheek and a mellifluous voice spoke in his ear. Mixed with the sweet words, were the rattle of Boromir’s chains and his groan of pain.

“Ah, you have found him first, clever Man,” Elladan said.

Faramir stepped away from the presence standing so close at his shoulder in time to see Boromir’s shackles yanked from the wall. The bolts that held them popped from the stone with small puffs of pulverized basalt, and Boromir sagged suddenly. Before Faramir could move, Elladan was there, supporting the Captain. The Elf looked up gravely up at his twin.

“This one is wounded in spirit as well as body,” he said.

Elrohir nodded as he dropped the ends of the chains. “There is a shadow in his eyes that is not cast by pain alone.”

“We must get him away from here,” Faramir said. “But I cannot think how.”

“Perhaps your reasoning is too elevated,” Elladan said.

“Aye,” Elrohir said. “Lower your aim.”

“We have no time for riddles,” Faramir said. “A patrol will no doubt pass by here before long.”

As though his words were a spell to summon them, a squad of palace guards marched into the square. The soldiers did not see the four in the deep shadow of portico roof, but as soon as they reached the stair, they would not fail to notice something amiss. Without a word exchanged, Elrohir shouldered Boromir’s not inconsiderable weight and faded away along the wall. A curt hand gesture from Elladan drew Faramir to follow the Elves, though he had seen no means of egress at this corner. Still clutching the little knife, he gave his trust to these two members of an alien Race, and stayed on Elladan’s heels.

They reached the end of the porch and ran down the south stairs as the sentries began walking up the central flight. Faramir could see no exit, only the big, hexagonal paving stones and the blank wall that they were approaching very quickly. Faramir vividly recalled his arrival at the palace, waiting in this courtyard, studying the foreign architecture until his gaze had been drawn to mob that was stoning Boromir. There was no way out at this juncture of the main building and the wall that surrounded it. They were trapped.

One of the Umbaran guards shouted behind them and Faramir’s panic fell away from him in a cold wash of resignation. It was ridiculous to think that he, a lesser son, could perform the sort of heroic feats that Boromir accomplished with no more effort than he took to scratch his nose. All he could do was make a futile gesture and die here. His father’s opinion of him was finally borne out, but at least he would bring no more shame upon his house. The last thought he had before he turned to face the attack was of Aragorn. His heart clenched with a deep and sincere longing to be back in the library of the White City reading some forgotten bit of ancient lore over the Heir’s shoulder. He wished Aragorn well, wherever he might be, and prayed that his friend and Prince would soon realize what strength he owned.

Elladan shouted, but Faramir blocked him out as the Umbaran soldier ordered them to stop. Well aware that the odds were impossible, Faramir darted forward as the sergeant of the guard brought his scimitar up. An arrow buzzed over Faramir’s shoulder and the Umbaran pitched backward to land face up on the steps. Three more followed, wickedly fast as wasps homing in on their targets. Faramir knelt to give a man the coup de grace and saw Elladan slinging his bow. Elrohir was disappearing into the ground with Boromir and Faramir abruptly realized how the Elves had entered the city. The reek of ordure was not coming from the gutters, but from the sons of Elrond.

“I should have thought of the sewers,” Faramir said as he followed Elladan down into the darkness.

“You would not have been able to lift the cap stone,” Elladan said as they reached the bottom and stepped into a shallow noisome stream.

“Oh.” Faramir was quiet for a few minutes as they slogged along in what for him was pitch-blackness. “You have my thanks,” he said softly. “You did not have to come here.”

“We promised to find your brother,” Elladan said.

“And for that you have my undying gratitude.”

“You found him on your own,” Elrohir said. “But we will help you take him home.”

“Again you have my thanks.”

“Then that is settled,” Elladan said. “Now, we must not tarry. At the end of this tunnel is the sea, and if the Umbarans guess where we have gone, we may be swimming under a hail of stones. Elrohir?”

Elladan’s brother began to trot, Boromir’s limp form bouncing on his shoulder. Elladan took Farmir’s gloved hand and put in on his belt. The Steward’s younger son quickly got the idea. Pushing away the thought of how badly his brother was injured and trying his best to ignore what was splashing up onto his leggings, Faramir endeavored to keep his footing. His courier’s pouch slapped against his side, reminding him of the missive it once held that now lay upon the couch of his guest room. If he did not survive, at least he had done his best to discharge his duty.

::: :: :+: :: :::

All day Aragorn rode behind Legolas and Castamir and listened to the Umbaran ask the Elf the questions Aragorn had imagined he might ask, and a few he would not have the temerity to voice. At least Castamir’s sly inquiry regarding any differences in Elvish nether regions had convinced the Heir that the Vigil and the slave boy had not coupled yet. It galled Aragorn that he cared so much, but he could not deny that the thought of Legolas finding joy with the comely Southron made the Heir feel vaguely ill. Yet, Aragorn owed the boy his gratitude for it was Castamir’s care of Gilraen, whether coaxing water down her throat, or combing her hair, that kept the Queen from wasting in her unnatural slumber. And it was not as if Aragorn had any right to dictate to them in this matter. Most maddening of all was that he could not even acknowledge it aloud. His companions clearly thought he was sulking, and left him to stew. It was with gratitude that night that the Heir sought his blankets and the oblivion of sleep.

“He is sound asleep, I tell you.”

Aragorn heard Castamir’s whisper like the low throbbing of a faraway horn calling across the water to ships in the night. He did not open his eyes, or give sign of his wakefulness, but lay still, straining to catch the slightest sound.

“Let me make you more comfortable,” Castamir murmured.

“How will you do that?” the Elf’s voice was cool and sharp as the scent of pine.

“You are aroused. Do not bother to deny it; I can feel it. Just here. By the Gods! Are all your kind so endowed? Ow! You are hurting my wrist.”

“And you are trespassing.”

A throaty laugh sent a ripple of groin-tightening warmth through Aragorn’s system as he pictured the boy looking up at the Vigil with those big doe eyes. He imagined the Elf reaching out to loose Castamir’s hair from its clasp to flow over smooth brown shoulders like rivulets of spilled ink. The Umbaran’s masses of glossy night dark hair would contrast starkly with Legolas’s spill of starshine tresses as they mingled during the act. Exactly how that act would be accomplished was a bit hazy to Aragorn, but he knew the way of a man with a maid, at least in theory, and he imagined it was not so different. And in imagining, he found that his manhood was hardening. Mortified, he rolled onto his side, pulling his cloak over his midsection. He could now see his mother in her artificial repose and the sight cooled off any lewd thoughts that tried to flare up. Aragorn watched the slight rise and fall of the gossamer veil Castamir had put over the Queen’s face to keep away the insects and counted her breaths until he drifted off.

“Now he is asleep,” Legolas said.

Castamir looked up from braiding his hair, his soft features cast in bronze by the light of the small fire. His full lips curved in an inviting smile as he moved closer to the Elf.

“Will you take pleasure with me?” the Umbaran asked.

“I know why I wish to lay with you, but why do you wish it?”

“I have given you reasons to choose from, but now I will give you the truth.” Castamir reached out slowly for he was accustomed to the company of warriors. Tentatively, he ran his forefinger along the edge of the Elf’s left ear. “I have never seen anyone like you,” he said. “You are as beautiful as the Corsair King’s most prized courtesan, but you are more alluring. Why would I not wish to bed one so comely?”

“And be able to boast that you had coupled with an Elf?”

Castamir grinned. “I would probably not call you an Elf, but one of the Fair Folk. However, you are right. I would be proud to partner you. This is the purpose I was shaped for and even though I am a slave, I still take foolish pride in my skill.”

Legolas cupped the young man’s chin in his hand and studied the sensuous features for a long moment. “We cannot linger over it,” he said at last. “Nor can I let the Heir out my sight.”

“I have no shame,” Castamir said. “Shame is as useful to a slave as vanity. I have performed at banquets on the high table. My master has taken me with his crew going about their tasks around us. If you wish to top me here, I will not protest.”

Legolas took the Umbaran by the hand and pulled him to the foot of the large tree they were camped beneath. The light of the fire did not reach here, but it did not matter to Legolas. He could see Castamir quite clearly as the boy unfastened his loincloth and lay back against the moss. The Southron let his legs sprawl wide as he reached down to take himself in hand.

“Do not stand at the gate when you have been made free of the hall,” Castamir murmured. “I am ready to be entered and eager to encompass your… what do you call your… manhood?”

“Do you wish a formal introduction?” Legolas asked as he sank to his knees.

“Nay,” Castamir chuckled softly as he nimbly took over the unfastening of the Elf’s leggings. “I prefer ruder guests that treat the hall as their own.”

“I am glad that will please you for there is no time for play.”

“Spend yourself in me.” Castamir opened his arms and thighs to the Vigil. “I wish it and you need it. This strange bond you have with the Prince has you strung as tightly as…”

The Umbaran’s words were cut off when Legolas put a hand on his nape pulling him up and into an ardent kiss. Castamir responded enthusiastically, drawing the Elf down to rest between his thighs. Legolas quickly found that the young man was as ready as he claimed. As the Elf had done many times before, he seated his arousal at the furled rosette and prepared to mount. Castamir made a strangled little noise against Legolas’s lips as he was entered, tensing in reflex and then relaxing against the moss. The Elf eased into the oiled passage as delicately as a leaf floating to the ground as he drew back to look into the mortal’s eyes.

“I have not done this with a Man before,” Legolas said. “What will please you best?”

“Take me,” Castamir said simply, bracing a bare foot against the Elf’s shoulder. “Let me be the anvil on which you forge joy with each hammer stroke.”

Mindful that humans were made of frailer stuff, Legolas gave Castamir what the Umbaran craved. And Castamir gave the Elf surcease of torment for a few pulse-pounding minutes. The Southron was well trained and talented in the carnal arts, bringing Legolas and himself to a swift and thunderous conclusion to the ride. In the sweet aftermath, the Vigil kissed the inside of Castamir’s knee, his wrist and his forehead, before gently disengaging.

“My thanks for the gift of joy,” Legolas said as he did up his leggings.

“It was my pleasure as well. I hope we may be together like this again.”

“Hope should never be discouraged,” the Elf answered as though he spoke with one of the Peredhil. “Go to sleep now. We will move on before it is light.”

“Aye.” Castamir took Legolas’s hand and pressed a kiss to his palm. “Thank you for guarding our rest.”

Legolas inclined his head and pulled away to take up a post across the clearing. His gaze strayed continually to the Heir, as it had done even in the throes of passion. It was the Oath, he reminded himself as his fingers wrapped around the hilt of Aiglosithil. The fascination he felt for Aragorn was part of the spell, naught more. In the end, it did not matter from whence the yearning sprang. It only mattered that he had the will to resist it. The Umbaran was a welcome diversion and as unabashed about lust as any Elf, a worthy partner in the ancient measure that was danced skin to skin. Castamir did not assuage the soul deep longing the Vigil felt for his charge, but he blunted the edge.

There had been no sign of pursuit, but the Prince of Mirkwood presumed they were being hunted anyway. Though they had slain the troop of Umbaran soldiers that attacked them, the men would be missed when they didn’t return from patrol. The bodies would soon be discovered and then the race would be on. Legolas was betting they had enough of a head start to allow them to reach Minas Tirith ahead of the Corsairs. He was well aware of the stakes, but he was used to gambling with his own life, and he had confidence in his abilities as a Tracker. They would slip into Gondor as if keeping a tryst, avoiding watchful eyes, skirting the roads, staying under cover, until they came to the gates of Minas Tirith. It was nothing he had not done before when infiltrating Mordor with Elrohir and Elladan to slay a few Morgul rats.

He would bring the Heir and the Queen safely back to their people, and then he would seek out the Steward for a private meeting. There were matters the Vigil wished to discuss regarding Aragorn’s ability to fend for himself. It was Legolas’s opinion that the Prince of Gondor’s education was sadly lacking, and he would have an accounting from the one that had allowed Aragorn to grow so nigh to manhood so ill prepared for the world outside the palace. The Heir to Gondor’s throne was not fit to sit upon it, and the Vigil wished to know the cause.

tbc


	12. Part Twelve: baileymoyes — LiveJournal

An Lotr a/u rated PG13  
I do not own these characters.  
Thank you, Jean  
::x:: ::x:: ::x::

“Let us put these weightier matters aside for now,” the Steward said, glancing toward the door behind which Gilraen lay in her unnatural slumber. “What is to be done about them?”  
  
Aragorn knew very well whom Denethor meant: the Vigil and Umbaran boy. Under normal circumstances, the Heir would never have answered as he did, but these were far from normal circumstances. The bone deep weariness that had come upon him in the forest of Pelargir had settled over his shoulders like a cloak of lead. He could see no immediate solutions to the problems that beset him and the strange lethargy that possessed him seemed to extend to his thoughts. After days in the Wilds, Legolas had brought them safely back to Minas Tirith, and Denethor had been at Aragorn’s side from the moment they had ridden through the gates. The bath and the food had done nothing to refresh the Heir and the Steward’s question offended him.

“We are not speaking of some offal that needs to be cleared away and burnt,” Aragorn snapped. “The two in the next room awaiting our pleasure are the only reason you are able to speak to me of their disposal. I will hear no more talk from you of my Vigil’s fitness to stand at my back. Is that understood?”

“This is his influence on you,” Denethor countered. “You never spoke disrespectfully to me before this Vigil came to court. Glad I am that the Queen cannot hear you.”

Aragorn looked up sharply, the quicksilver blue of his eyes intensified by unshed tears. “Forgive me. Ever you have worked for the good of Gondor, and you do not deserve discourtesy of me. But mark me, the Vigil stays.”

Denethor inclined his head in acquiescence. It was worse than he thought, but not irreparable. It would only take the removal of the bad influence from the Heir’s life to bring him back to heel. Once the Vigil was gone, Aragorn would have no one to spur him to these little rebellions. It would be a delicate and difficult, not to say dangerous, undertaking to do away with one that was not only a fearsome warrior, but the son of the King of Mirkwood as well. The Elven monarch could be troublesome if he had cause, and no doubt the other Galadrim would stand with him. The matter would require much thought, though much had already been given to it, and so Denethor moved on to another question.

“And the Umbaran?”

Aragorn sighed. “Castamir watched over my mother and cared for her. How should I reward him?”

Denethor’s lips thinned to a grim line. “At the least, you should be wondering why he was left alone with Queen for you to find.”

“There were soldiers. I told you about them.”

Denethor sniffed. “You are too trusting, Aragorn.”

“And whose fault is that?” Legolas asked as he came into the room. “Are you not the one that had the teaching of him?”

“How dare you,” Denethor barked.

“I grew tired of waiting,” the Vigil replied. “The boy is weary and… I have been too long from the Heir’s side. I wish to speak with you, Steward, about the very subject you have raised. Why have you sabotaged Gondor’s king to be?”

Aragorn leapt from his chair and swayed with exhaustion. In three strides, Legolas was beside him, bearing him up with an arm around his back. With the other arm under the Heir’s knees, the Elf picked him up and carried him to his bed. Laying the young man down, the Vigil stripped off Aragorn’s dressing gown of sapphire velvet and pulled the linen up to his waist.

“For your modesty,” Legolas said with the ghost of a smile for his ward.

Aragorn wanted to return the smile, but didn’t, using his weariness as an excuse for his pettiness. In truth, he was angry at the Vigil, though he had no right to be. He did not want to feel this way, but found he had no control over it. Jealous. He was jealous of that sweet-natured slave that had done nothing but what he’d been trained to do. Aragon knew he was being ridiculous, but that knowledge did nothing to soothe the pain he felt when he saw the Elf give Castamir a soft look, or a pat of his hand. It was more than ridiculous. It was absurd. Why should he be jealous? It was not as if he cared for the Elf in that way. And even if he did, what then? He would never be able to tell Legolas of his feelings, no, nor any other male. Aragorn, son of Arathorn would marry and give Gondor more Heirs. There were no other possible futures for him. With a heavy sigh, he turned onto his side and pretended he did not hear the fierce whispers in the doorway.

“And I say you will leave him, Steward. The Heir must sleep, but I wish to talk with you.”

“Oh we shall talk, Master Elf, never fear, but at a time of my choosing, not yours. You had it all your way in the Wilds, I do not doubt, but you are on my tourney field now. You have been warned.”

“Is that all of your warning?” Legolas inquired silkily. “I would not wish to reply yet if there were more threats to come.”

“You have heard all I will say to you for now. If you have threats, I will hear them.”

“I do not threaten,” the Vigil said. “Threats are a waste of breath. When I am sure of you, I will strike, and you will have no warnings beforehand. Sleep well, Steward.”

Denethor stood for a long moment before he realized he had been dismissed like a servant. With a cold glare at the Elf, and at the drowsy, dark-skinned boy on the bench, the Steward gathered the skirts of his robe and swept out of the chamber. Castamir looked up as the outer door slammed shut. Looking around in confusion, the Umbaran saw only strangeness until his gaze encountered the Vigil.

“Come,” Legolas bade him. “We sleep in here.”

Aragorn was deep in sleep as the Umbaran curled up on a couch, and the Vigil lay down across the end of the royal bed. In his dreams, the Heir was back in the woods where he and Legolas had encountered the spirits of the dead soldiers. He remembered vividly the feel of the Elf’s strong arms holding him securely as the phantoms streamed over, around and through them, wonderful and terrible, exulting in their release. Though Aragorn had felt fear, it did not overwhelm him for he knew the Vigil would protect him. This one person, he could trust absolutely for he also knew that the Vigil wanted nothing from him. Even his best friend Faramir he must eye somewhat askance simply for being Denethor’s son and susceptible to the Steward’s wrath. A chilly current flowed through Aragorn’s warm, formless dream of being held. Faramir had not been there to welcome him home.

::x::|::x::|::x::|::x::|::x::

“Put him down here,” Elladan said, stepping away from the makeshift pallet of leafy branches.

Faramir and Elrohir gently deposited their burden on the springy bed and Elladan knelt to give the injured man another look. The Man could not tell if the Elves’ reticence was part of their nature, or because Boromir was dying. As if reading Faramir’s thoughts, Elrohir clapped him on the shoulder.

“Your brother is a strong man, I deem, and he will quickly recover from these hurts. Indeed, it has only been a few days and he is mending well.”

“Thank you,” Faramir said. “That is most heartening.”

“It is not his physical injuries that concern me,” Elladan said. “He is wounded in spirit as well. I can still see a shadow of the Dark when I look into his eyes.”

“Is there aught we can do for him?” Faramir asked. “We are still some distance from Minas Tirith, and if what you say is true, I know of no doctor in the White City that can heal him.”

“I know of only a handful that can contend with the Shadow in the East,” Elladan said. “The Lady Galadriel, Mithrandir, Saruman the Wise, and my father. Perhaps there are more, but I do not know them.”

“We should go to your city,” Elrohir told Faramir. “And send word of Boromir’s affliction.”

“That plan seems good to me as well,” Elladan said, as he applied more salve to Boromir’s wounds. “I confess I had hoped that the shadows would fade, but they have not.”

“At least he sleeps quietly now,” Faramir sighed over the blood chilling sounds Boromir had made that first night after their escape. The choked, gargling noises were somehow worse than any full-throated scream.

“I’ve been adding herbs to his water,” Elladan said. “Another confession. It appears I am full of deceit, but I swear the potion will not harm him, only allow him to rest.”

“You have my gratitude,” Faramir said. “Will we camp here?”

“For a while,” Elrohir said. “Are you not hungry?”

Faramir nodded. He was famished, but he’d promised himself he would not complain once on this journey. These Elves risked their lives to help him, and he would do his best to stay out of their way and not make demands on them.

“I have never met a Man like you,” Elrohir said.

“You have never met any Man,” Elladan corrected.

“I have heard tales,” Elrohir replied quickly.

“And all tales are true ones?”

Elrohir turned pointedly from his brother to Faramir. “Come hunting with me,” he said.

“Ro,” Elladan began on a warning note.

Elrohir continued methodically pinning up his long tail of inky hair. “What shall it be? A brace of fat rabbits? Or venison perhaps? Nay, that would be wasteful. What do you say to roast bird, Faramir?”

The Man’s stomach gurgled loudly and both Elves laughed. After a brief hesitation, Faramir joined their merriment.

“Hunt,” Elladan said to his brother. “And I prefer fish, as you well know.”

“And Faramir?”

“Will stay here and help make camp,” Elladan answered. “Go. Now.”

With a shrug, Elrohir loped off and was lost to view in moments. Faramir stared after him.

“It is the cloak,” the Steward’s son said at last. “It camouflages you.”

“Somewhat,” Elladan said. “And my brother, for all his jests, is somewhat woodscrafty.”

“Somewhat,” Faramir repeated. “I have never seen any hunters that compare to the two of you. Of course, I have not been on many hunts.”

“Do you think you could make another pallet like the one your brother lies upon?”

“I will do my best,” Faramir said, studying the placement of the supple branches.

“Then I will build a cookfire for Ro’s fish.”

“I still do not understand why you and your brother are doing this,” Faramir said as he worked.

“We can visit Legolas any time. You offered us adventure.”

“I see. It is like a game to you. Is that because you cannot die?”

Elladan cocked his head thoughtfully as he coaxed a spark into flame. “That is as good an answer as any. We can die, you know.”

“Only by accidence or violence,” Faramir replied. “Otherwise, you Eldar are immortal.”

“Eldar? Are you a scholar, Faramir?”

“I like reading the old lore, especially if it concerns the Eldar. The accounts of the drowning of Numenor used to keep up at night. I could not bear to sleep without knowing the end of the tale.”

“Most tales never really end,” Elladan said.

“Mine will, when I die.”

“What of your children? What of those you have touched? As long as they remember you, your tale is not ended.”

“I fear I am not for maids,” Faramir said candidly.

Elladan looked quickly up and got smoke in his eyes. As tears ran down his cheeks, a smile slowly formed on his lips. “We have that in common then,” he said.

:::=:::=:::=:::=:::=:::

“My dread sovereign,” the majordomo said as he groveled at the feet of the King.

“Well,” the slave called Romen asked in honeyed tones. “What is it that you are afraid to tell His Majesty?”

“Captain Namir…”

“You have found him?”

“Yes, Sire.”

Romen glanced up as the dark-robed monarch squeezed his shoulder. “And is he alive?”

“No, Sire, the captain…”

A cawing noise like the cry of a battlefield raven interrupted the majordomo’s stammering speech. Romen looked up, surprise sharpening his pretty features, narrowing the dark almond eyes, and it occurred to the majordomo that the slave was older than he appeared.

“Who has done this thing?” Romen asked the majordomo. “Who has killed His Majesty’s favorite?

“Westrons from Gondor. It must have been the rescue party that came for that Knight. That man that called himself an envoy was in on the plot.”

“So,” Romen said. “Our disgrace grows with each new day.” The boy paused as the tall man gripped his shoulder again. “Ready our fleet,” he commanded. “We sail for Minas Tirith and for war if they will not yield our blood-price for Captain Namir. Fetch pen and paper; we have a message for Gondor’s Kinglet.”

The majordomo crawled backward until he reached the door and disappeared with remarkable speed for such a substantial man. Alone once again in the throne room, Romen looked up at the sorcerer-king. Then his hand flew up to strike the dark-robed one across the cheek with a loud smack.

“That is for your noise earlier. You know you are to remain silent in the presence of others. It is not for nothing that I cut out your tongue.”

The tall man cowered until Romen spoke again.

“They must fear you, you understand? If they do not fear you, you are of no use to me. Stop whimpering. I still need you.”

The dark man’s eyes never left Romen as the naked boy paced up and down before the throne, voicing his thoughts aloud.

“All my present woes may be traced back to the same source: the so-called Corsair King and his insane plot to conquer Gondor. It looks as though he will have my support after all, damn him. You are lucky you do not have brothers. No matter how much you may love them, they are no end of trouble.”

The majordomo returned with a scribe in tow, and Romen began dictating the supposed King’s words. In no uncertain terms, the King of Umbar laid the blame for the murder of his favorite brother at the doorstep of the ruler of Gondor. As blood-price, Gondor was required to yield the Pellenor, the rich plains that bordered the Anduin. If the answer was no, Gondor could expect to see sails on the river and right soon.


	13. Part Thirteen: baileymoyes — LiveJournal

An LotR a/u rated NC17  
Warning: graphic m/m sexual situations  
Disclaimer: These beloved characters are the creation of J.R.R. Tolkien.  
Thank you to Jean, my matey tatey.  
This one is for Mistress Deb.  
::: :: ::: :: :::

“My son!” Denethor cried out as he ran down the steps.

Faramir looked up, but the Steward’s eyes were fixed on Boromir.  As they should be, Faramir told himself. Boromir is injured; he is more deserving of father’s concern. I, on the other hand, fled Minas Tirith against his wishes. It would not matter that Faramir had brought his brother home. Denethor would only see that his younger son had failed in his diplomatic mission. Indeed, the Steward spared not a word for Faramir, as he ordered Boromir taken to the Houses of Healing.

“Father,” Faramir said, keeping pace. “You must send for the Lord Elrond. Boromir’s spirit needs healing as well as his body.”

Denethor shot his son a glare that included the Elves at Faramir’s back. “Who told you such nonsense? These creatures that stand so close to your side? Boromir is strong in spirit, not weak like you. You are soft and gullible, Faramir. You have been so since childhood no matter how I worked to strengthen you. Boromir is a warrior born, but you and the Prince are of different stock.”

Elladan and Elrohir exchanged a glance as they followed father and sons into the precincts of the healers. Elrond could be stern, but always his children could feel the love from whence sprang his uncompromising standards. Naught but cold contempt could they discern in the Steward’s words. In unspoken agreement, the twins accompanied Faramir into the hall, watching as the healers took charge of the wounded man.

“Father,” Boromir called out as he was laid upon a bed.

Denethor took his son’s hand. “I am here, Boromir. You are in a House of Healing and soon you will be whole again.”

“I must warn you,” Boromir said urgently, trying to rise.

“Lie still,” Denethor insisted, cutting his eyes at the healers hovering over the bed. “Let these fine gentlemen help you.”

“You do not understand,” Boromir gripped his father’s hand until Denethor winced. “There is a great evil in Umbar.”

“Yes, my son. I know it well.”

“No, you do not!” Boromir pulled himself up. “Father you must…”

Boromir’s words ended abruptly and he stared past the Steward at the doorway. Aragorn came into the room with the Vigil a half pace behind.

“We were sitting with my mother,” the Heir said. “We heard Boromir had returned and I could not wait for the healers to be done.”

Boromir’s eyes lit on the Heir and his lips began to curve in a smile. Aragorn kept moving forward, a hand extended to clasp that of his stalwart, beloved Captain when he saw Boromir’s expression change. The welcoming look faded to be replaced by the staring eyes and gaping mouth of utter horror. The Captain surged up from the bed, throwing Denethor aside as he rose. Ripping the Steward’s dagger from its enameled sheath, Boromir flung himself toward Aragorn. Denethor fell into Legolas and the Elf knocked him to the ground, leaping over his prone body to get to the Heir.

However, Aragorn was in no danger. The target of Boromir’s attack was standing just behind the Heir. Though injured, the Captain seemed to have his full strength as he pushed Aragorn out of the way and grabbed Castamir’s wrist. The Vigil blocked Boromir’s arm before he could sink the dagger into the boy’s chest. Boromir roared in outrage as he fought against the Elf’s hold.

“Let me go! I must slay him before he puts a spell on us. Can you not see the evil in his eyes? Slay him! Slay him before we are all lost.”

Faramir had gone to Aragorn’s side as soon as steel was bared, but he left the Heir to go to his brother. Legolas held Boromir from behind with his arms around the broad chest, trapping the mighty arms against the Captain’s sides. Castamir cringed away from the shouting, thrashing Man as Elladan and Elrohir watched Legolas for any sign that he needed their aid. Denethor sprawled where he’d fallen, staring up at the struggling Boromir’s contorted face.

“Let me go, you fools!” Boromir raged. “Romen must be slain. He is in league with the Eye. Slay him before he calls the demons to consume our souls.”

Castamir moved behind Aragorn again, out of Boromir’s sight, and a Healer came on the run with a potion to quiet the Captain. It took Faramir and Legolas’s help for the surgeon to get enough of the fluid down Boromir’s throat to do any good. Denethor rose as his eldest son’s struggles grew weaker and his raving became angry mutters. Boromir was placed in his bed again, and in moments his eyelids fluttered shut.

“What malady has befallen my son?” Denethor demanded of the Healers.

“I tried to tell you, father,” Faramir spoke up. “Boromir has been driven mad.”

“You would have it so, I know,” Denethor turned on his younger son. “Always you have been envious of your brother, but this is unworthy even of you. Leave my sight.”

Aragorn cleared his throat and addressed the Chief Healer. “Please care for Boromir as you would for me. Faramir? Will you come to my chambers with me? I very much wish to speak with you.”

Some of the sharp lines of pain were erased from Faramir’s fair face. “Of course, my Prince. May I bring my new friends?”

Aragorn glanced at the Peredhil who were greeting Legolas in the Elvish manner. “They would be most welcome,” he said. “Castamir, please come with us, as well. My mother will be in good hands here and I think you may leave her side for a while.”

Castamir bowed his lovely head in easy acquiescence and followed the Heir and his friend. Legolas and the Twain fell in behind them, speaking rapidly in Sindarin. By the time they had reached Aragorn’s quarters, Faramir had given the details of his journey to Umbar, and Elladan, with interjections from Elrohir, had given their version.

“But why would Boromir attack Castamir?” Faramir asked the pertinent question.

Castamir raised his head, and Aragorn nodded the permission the boy seemed to need before he would speak. “Perhaps he tried to kill me simply because I am Umbaran,” he said.

“Perhaps,” Aragorn said. “He was speaking so strangely. One phrase particularly struck me as odd. He said that the East must be destroyed. Why? I know that Boromir believes that the Easterners and Southrons should be wiped out to the last man, but it was such a strange thing to say.”

“I beg your pardon, Majesty,” Castamir said. “The Man did not say that the East must be destroyed; he said Romen must be slain. Romen is a sort of pet name of the Umbaran royal family. I think he meant that the King of Umbar is evil and must die, and I agree.”

Legolas put a hand to Elladan’s shoulder and the other Elf ceased speaking. “We must send for Lord Elrond,” the Vigil said.

“Father forbade it,” Faramir spoke up. “He has no trust for any of Elvenkind.”

“He would let his son suffer? What sort of folk are you?” Elrohir could not keep quiet any longer.

“The Steward is only one man,” Legolas said. “Do not judge all Mankind by him.”

The twins looked at Mirkwood’s Prince in surprise at this defense of Men, but Legolas did not explain. Instead, he went to kneel beside Aragorn’s chair.

“Send for Elrond, my Lord,” the Vigil said.

“Why are you so concerned for Boromir’s well being? You have made it quite clear how you feel about him,” Aragorn said a bit peevishly.

“I wish to know what happened to him in the dungeons of Umbar,” Legolas said. “And I cannot question a madman.”

“I see,” Aragorn said. “Very well. Faramir, would you see that a message is sent to Rivendell requesting the help of Lord Elrond? And then get some rest, if you love me.”

Faramir nodded. “I will see to it.”

“We will add our entreaties to the Lord Aragorn’s, if you wish it,” Elladan said.

“I would be grateful,” the Heir said, and the twins left with Faramir. “Poor Boromir. What did they do to him to break such a strong and proud man? Legolas, do you believe this talk of demons?”

“Demons? To be sure, there are creatures in this world evil enough to deserve the name. But it is just a name, and Elladan tells me that he sensed a Shadow on Boromir’s soul.”

“You believe the demon Boromir ranted of was a device of the Great Enemy?”

“All evil may ultimately be traced back to Mordor.”

Aragorn nodded. “You are right, and I am weary. It has been an eventful day. I know I should find Denethor and begin drafting a reply to the King of Umbar, but I think that rest is the best course now. Perhaps something will come to me in my dreams.”

The Vigil rose from his knees and took the Heir’s hand. Hauling the young man to his feet, Legolas gave in to the impulse that had plagued him from the moment he’d recognized the Heir beneath his plain scholar’s robes. He wrapped his arms around the rangy frame and held Aragorn close. Into his embrace, the Elf endeavored to pour all his desire to protect this precious one from whatever might threaten him, be it a sword, a word, or loneliness. After a brief hesitation, Aragorn leaned into the Vigil and took the offered comfort gratefully.

Castamir got to his feet and signed to the Elf that he would return to the Houses of Healing. Legolas nodded, and gave his attention to his ward. Cradling the Man in his arms, the Vigil laid him on his bed and loosened his clothing. Aragorn murmured drowsy thanks, already drifting in slumber. As had become his habit, Legolas took off his boots and lay down across the end of the bed. He lay staring at the pattern of the black and silver brocade canopy as the Heir’s breathing evened out. Let Aragorn sleep while he could for the Elf presaged many sleepless nights in their near future.

:::::::::::::::::::::::

Aragorn could hear the soft whispers when Castamir returned to his chamber. He felt the mattress shift as Legolas rose, and his heart sank. He didn’t know if he could lie still and silent one more time as his Vigil and the former slave enjoyed one another. Neither the Elf, nor the Umbaran, had the slightest self-consciousness about joining on the couch just a few feet away from the royal bed, and Aragorn could not forbear listening. He was about to pretend a need for the privy, when a gentle hand touched his hair.

Aragorn’s eyes flew open to see the Elf standing over him. In the moonlight through the clerestory windows, the Vigil was a statue of ivory and mithril, and then he moved again, stroking the Heir’s tumbled hair. The quick tears that prickled his eyelids at the simple gesture of affection embarrassed Aragorn. Was he so weak that the touch of Legolas’s hand made him weep? What sort of Man was he? What sort of King would he make?

The Elf’s hand drifted down to palm Aragorn’s smooth shaven cheek and cup the strong chin, tilting his face up. Aragorn drew breath to speak, but the fingers gripping his jaw did not allow his mouth to open. Instead, Legolas bent and touched his lips to the young man’s. The effect on Aragorn was instantaneous and overwhelming. The Heir fell back against his pillow, and tried to absorb the riot of feelings running rampant through his body. The racing flow of tingling warmth spread through his groin in a liquid pulse of arousal and his Manhood stirred against his thigh. He did not know which he wanted more: for Legolas to stop, or continue. The Elf laid a hand on Aragorn’s crotch, and the Heir had his answer.

Once again, Aragorn tried to speak, but a finger was laid across his lips. Legolas pulled back the coverlet and climbed onto the bed, crouching over the Man. Aragorn’s chest felt suddenly full of beating wings, as the Elf’s face came closer and closer to his. His blood was boiling but his skin felt like a layer of ice, as fear and exhilaration blew through him. It was as though he stood in the prow of a crystal ship sailing faster than even the King of Horses could run, with wind and spray in his face as they approached the edge of the world. Then Legolas kissed him again, tongue flicking at his lips, slipping inside and the boat sailed off the edge and into uncharted territory.

The Heir’s guardians had been most diligent in insuring that there would never be any illegitimate claimants for Gondor’s throne. Aragorn had done naught more than kiss a lady’s cheek before now, though he was passing familiar with his Manhood. Like all young men, he had fondled himself to completion, and more than a few times, but never without a nagging sense of shame. Physical pleasure was not a suitable subject of conversation with either his mother or the Steward, and the one time he had tried in a roundabout way to bring it up, they had thought he was speaking of the succession, and started suggesting brides. Now, he found that no words were needed, nor any instruction, as the Elf caressed him.

When Aragorn tried to rise to embrace Legolas, the Vigil eased him back down with a hand on his chest. The Elf’s eyes glowed like a cat’s in gloom as he silently bade the Heir to be still and accept this gift. Though eager to become an active participant, Aragorn bowed to greater experience, and relaxed against the linen. He was astounded how arousing a soft kiss between his collarbones could be, and as the Elf’s mouth moved lower, he was glad that all he was required to do was enjoy this generous act. His senses began to whirl as cool, agile fingers and a hot, eager mouth traversed his every rise and hollow. When Legolas’s tongue darted into his navel in a parody of lovemaking, Aragorn surged up off the bed in reaction. The Vigil caught hold of his shoulders and bore him down again.

For a long moment their eyes met and held; a question was asked and answered. Aragorn lay back, parting his thighs at the urging of the Elf’s hands. He felt pressure at his lower opening and craned his neck to see as the tip of Legolas’s arousal entered him. For some reason, Aragorn had expected this to hurt, and he was almost sure that some sort of oil was required, but all his knowledge had been garnered listening to the Guards talk of buggery once when they thought he wasn’t listening. There was no pain and the hard column of flesh slid into his sheath like a sword into its scabbard, a perfect fit.

Again, Aragorn tried to speak of his wonder, his gratitude and his bliss, but the Elf leaned in and took his mouth, tongue thrusting slow and sweet like his rod in the tight socket. With each stroke of Legolas’s Elfhood, the waves of pleasure that swept through the Man’s body increased in intensity. The cries of ecstasy that rose in his throat were muffled to moans and whimpers against the Elf’s lips as the cycles spiraled higher toward rapture. He felt as though they were two winged beings, buffeted by drafts of rising air as they floated in utter freedom high above the plain. He never feared he would fall. The one to whom he was bonded would not allow any harm to come to him; of that, he was certain. He soared until fireworks exploded in his groin as they had over the towers of the White City on his last birthday, and the Vigil held him safely through the barrage of bliss that left him shaking.

Aragorn drew a long shuddering breath as Legolas withdrew. The Elf kissed the Heir’s forehead as he rose, and Aragorn reached out for him. The Prince’s knuckles rapped the solid wood of the bedpost and he woke with a pounding heart and tears on his cheeks. He stared straight ahead, waiting for his breathing return to normal, until movement in the corner of his eye attracted his attention. The Heir froze as his eyes met Castamir’s and then dropped to the figure of the Vigil, stretched out on the padded bench, his eyes wide open though it seemed he slept. Aragorn’s gaze tracked the Umbaran’s hand stroking the Elf’s silken hair. When the Heir dragged his eyes back up to Castamir’s, a slow smile spread across the boy’s full lips.

“Go back to your dreams,” Castamir whispered, or at least Aragorn thought he did.

When Aragorn blinked, Castamir’s eyes were closed, and the sound of soft snores came from across the room. His mind reeling in confusion, his body still trembling in release, the Heir lay back, in the grip of sudden lassitude. He fell quickly into a deep sleep and did not move again until morning came with all its attendant woe.

tbc


	14. Part Fourteen: baileymoyes — LiveJournal

An LotR a/u rated PG13  
These wonderful characters belong to Tolkien.  
My thanks to Lady Jean.

::::=\V/=:::

“Lord Elrond.”

“Lady Galadriel,” Rivendell’s ruler inclined his head to she that Elfkind called Queen in their hearts. “It is long since I walked beneath the mallorns in bloom.” 

“I hope you may do so in more than spirit one day soon,” Galadriel gazed at Elrond’s seeming upon the smooth surface of the water. “So few of us are able to speak mind to mind in these latter days.”

“We are a diminishing folk, but that is the natural order of things, which I need not tell you. What matter is of such importance that you would risk the attention of the Enemy by communicating thus?”

“My Mirror has shown me only ill doings. The Queen of Gondor and one of Gondor’s great captains struck down by the Shadow. Fleets with black sails on the Anduin. My visions of the Heir are clouded by some great turmoil of spirit. Is there naught you may do?”

“I received a message requesting my aid in Minas Tirith, but I may not leave Rivendell just now. I will send advice to the Healers, and such herbs as might be useful.”

“I fear that will not be enough.”

“I cannot go.”

“Is there none you may send?”

Elrond closed his eyes for a moment. There was one in Rivendell that was nearly his equal in the healing arts, and Galadriel knew this. She knew also that Elrond alone had the power to send this emissary, and how reluctant he was to give the order.

“Gondor must not fall,” Galadriel said gently.

Elrond nodded as his semblance faded from the Lady’s Mirror.

:::=v=:::

Aragorn paced beside Faramir on another circuit of the blighted Tree speaking of the news the Steward had delivered at the morning audience. The Heir tried and failed to keep his mind on the serious topic and his eyes from straying to the three Elves standing upon the edge of the parapet. The wind that always blew upon these heights made sable and silver banners of their long hair, drawing Aragorn’s gaze and capturing it with hypnotic beauty. Faramir noticed his friend’s distraction and could not forbear to comment.

“They have no equal,” the Steward’s son murmured.

“Your pardon?”

“The Vigil and the Elven brothers,” Faramir elaborated. “They are so beautiful, like wild creatures that have strayed into a farmyard, stags among the cattle.”

Aragorn’s forehead puckered in a small frown. “They are the fairest of the earth’s children, but they are not as I imagined when I read the tales of old.”

Faramir stopped, as far from earshot of the Citadel guards as was possible. “Indeed they are. They are at once more innocent and more sophisticated than I ever thought. I did not look for humor in them, but they are filled with the slyest wit. Though they revere all life, I have never seen fiercer warriors.”

“As always, you know my mind before I do.”

“You were alone with the Vigil for some time,” Faramir said, sliding a sideways glance at Aragorn. “Would you care to tell me what you think of him now?”

“He is all that you said, and much more besides. There are depths to him, Faramir, that I think I shall never plumb, and I find myself wishing…”

“What do you wish, brother of my heart?”

Aragorn leaned against the sun-warmed stone of the Tower and closed his eyes. Faramir saw the Vigil’s head turn, automatically checking the Heir’s position while listening to Elladan. There was more in the Elf’s gaze than watchfulness, but Legolas turned away before Faramir could puzzle out what it was. The young Man’s interest was piqued and he made a conscious decision to be more observant of the bodyguard.

Aragorn sighed heavily. “I have had such dreams,” he whispered.

“What sort of dreams?”

“The sort that soil the sheets.”

Faramir smiled. “Ah, those sorts of dreams. I find them quite pleasant. Why should they trouble you so?”

Aragorn shook his head, his eyes flicking toward the trio of Sindar. “I wish I could speak with my mother.”

“Since my birth, we have been companions,” Faramir said, moving closer to the Heir. “I have seen you in all moods from best to worst. What bothers you that you cannot reveal to me?”

“I fear that you will no longer call me friend when you hear my shame.”

“You speak of shame? You? I do not know a better man, begging my brother’s pardon. It isn’t possible for you to do anything shameful.”

“Failing my people is not cause for shame?”

Faramir glanced over his shoulder and saw Legolas watching them. There was a tension in the Elf’s posture that suggested he was on the point of coming over. It was uncanny how attuned the Vigil was to Aragorn’s emotional state. The Elf’s gaze moved to Faramir and their eyes met briefly. With a small nod, Legolas turned back to the twins.

“How have you failed?” Faramir asked gently.

“I learned more of myself than I wish to know on our journey to Umbar. I knew I was but an indifferent warrior, but it did not concern me until I found myself facing another man’s blade in earnest. And it was not only my life at stake, but also that of my mother, and still I had to be goaded into the fray. I killed a man, ‘Mir. I ran him through, but I felt none of the exultation of the heroes in the books. I felt scared, and in danger of heaving my guts; I did in fact. One of my titles is Defender of Gondor; tell me how I shall fulfill it.”

“Is that all?”

Aragorn gave his friend an incredulous look. “Is it not enough?”

“Boromir puked himself dizzy after his first kill,” Faramir said. “A fact known to few, but one with which he comforted me when I spoke to him as you are speaking to me now.”

“In truth?”

Faramir put his palm on the Tree stitched in silver over Aragorn’s heart. “I swear on that which is most precious.”

Aragorn put his hand over Faramir’s. “Steadfast heart, no truer friend, will you always be here to catch me when I start to slip my moorings?”

“I certainly hope so,” Faramir said. “It was not me that hied off in the middle of the night with only a Wood Elf for company.”

Aragorn smiled ruefully and opened his mouth to speak, but the high, clear winding of a horn broke on the morning air and all that heard it fell silent in hope of hearing it again. Warriors heard a trumpet calling them to glory. Travelers heard a bell welcoming them home. Those with evil in their hearts heard the baying of the hounds of justice. Faramir and Aragorn joined the Elves at the rail as Elrohir pointed to a cloud of dust on the road.

“Can you see who it is?” the Heir asked.

“I do not need to see,” Elrohir said. “It is the Lady Arwen.”

“Our sister,” Elladan added.

:::=v=:::

“We shall be overrun with these savages,” Denethor hissed at Aragorn, as the doors of the audience chamber swung inward. “The two my younger son has seen fit to befriend were the cause of your sire’s death.”

Aragorn flinched and pretended to straighten his shoulders, lifting his brows in an attempt to ease the weight of the crown. The Vigil stood to the right of the throne; Denethor was on the left, one hand on the arm of the chair, as he leaned in to speak again. Aragorn held up a hand for silence as the troop of Elves marched down the middle of the hall. With ill grace, the Steward subsided and contented himself with glaring at the Elvish envoys. The Heir could not take his gaze from she that walked at the head of the short column.

Arwen Undomiel wore the same uniform as the warriors at her back, but it could not disguise the fact that she was sculpted with a more generous hand. Hair as inky dark as that of her brothers’ flowed over her shoulders and the ripe swell of her breasts. A weapon belt incised with a running pattern of vines cinched a waist that looked slender enough to fit between a Man’s hands. Finely woven leggings the color of moss molded to the elegant curves of her long legs as she strode confidently forward. Aragorn’s gaze rose to the Elf maiden’s face and he knew he had seen the fairest of her gender. She was night to the Vigil’s day, but no less lovely.

“Aragorn, son of Arathorn, Prince and Heir of Gondor, I bring greetings from Lord Elrond of Rivendell. I have the honor to be his daughter, called Arwen, and if I may aid you, I will.”

Aragorn rose and came down the steps of the dais with Legolas on his heels. “Lady Arwen,” he said, holding out his hand. “You are most welcome to this court.”

Arwen’s eyes met his, a vivid blue violet that Aragorn had never seen before. “Am I?” she said in a low voice. “Yon minister looks not so welcoming to me.”

“Steward,” Aragorn said without turning. “Will you see to quarters for our guests?”

Denethor’s features froze in an expression of affront as the Vigil fixed him with a warning look. Swallowing a spate of angry words, the Steward hurried from the chamber. The Heir grew more rebellious by the day, and these Elves encouraged the young Man’s disrespect for his oldest advisor. It could not be tolerated much longer, but as long as Denethor held the reins of power, he could be patient.

:::=v=:::

Aragorn watched Lady Arwen bend over the bed where Queen Gilraen lay in her long slumber. Slim white fingers rested for a moment on Gilraen’s forehead before Arwen rose and passed out of that chamber into the next one. Boromir was quiet under the influence of soothing herbs, but his limbs were still bound with soft restraints. When he was wakeful, the powerful warrior raged against Umbar and the Shadow and was a danger to himself, as well as to others. Arwen laid her hand on his brow, a frown marring her perfect face.

“For the Queen, I can do nothing but ease her dreams,” the Elf maiden said. “She is not under the Shadow and I cannot sense the drug that quells her spirit. This warrior has felt the hand of him we do not name lightly. If I may have a place and privacy to perform a cleansing ritual, I will try to wipe the stain of Darkness from your captain’s soul.”

“I would be most grateful,” Aragorn said, his heart sinking that she could not help his mother. “What sort of place would be best for your ritual?”

“I must be surrounded by growing, living things, and there should be water, running water, not a pool. Some cloth to dry myself on would not be unwelcome.”

“Shall we assist you?” Elladan asked.

Arwen raised one eyebrow. “Find me food that I can eat and whatever drink seems good to you. You have been longer among Men and knowing what slaves you are to your appetites, I am certain you can do this. Do you still stand gaping? I hunger, brothers.”

Legolas’s impassive mask was in place, but Aragorn thought he saw the corners of the Vigil’s mouth curve slightly up as the twins left hastily with Faramir trailing them. The incipient smile faded away as Arwen turned to the Vigil.

“Prince of Mirkwood, I have had no chance to greet you until now. I have recently visited the borders of your land. You will be pleased to know we left the lifeless bodies of many Orcs to replenish the earth.”

“It is Thranduil’s kingdom,” Legolas said. “But I rejoice to hear of dead Orcs.”

Castamir stood a few paces behind Legolas, waiting to be noticed, and Arwen let her gaze play over the Umbarans appealing form. “What is this? I did not know the rulers of Gondor kept concubines.”

Aragorn blushed. “Castamir is not my concubine. He is my mother’s nurse.”

“He looks more like a pleasure slave,” the Elf maiden said flatly. “But the Queen seems very well cared for, so I will believe you.”

A page in black and silver livery entered and gave Aragorn a message from the Steward. “Forgive me, Lady Arwen, I must attend a meeting,” the Heir said. “Faramir will return soon and you may rely on him to supply all your needs.”

Arwen flashed a look at Legolas, both Elves suppressing a smile at the young Man’s unintended humor. “Thank you,” she said. “I will do what I may for your mother and your captain. I will be weary afterward, and hope I may be excused from any formalities.”

Aragorn looked puzzled for a moment and then offered her a tentative smile. “I believe I understand. Though you would be the shining star of any courtly firmament, formal social gatherings are not to your taste.”

“I would sooner be on horseback riding toward a new sunrise… However, I have made my sire and grandmother a promise and I will keep it.”

Aragorn bowed to her and walked away with the Vigil close behind. Castamir wavered and then spoke before the Heir could reach the door. “I would like to help the Lady if I may.”

Legolas cocked an eyebrow at Arwen and she nodded. “An extra pair of skilful hands would be welcome,” she said, as the Heir and his bodyguard left. “Come, Castamir. Tell me what you know of the Queen’s malady.”

:::=v=:::

“I told you, did I not?” Denethor waved the dispatch in his right hand. “A fleet of black ships! They probably set sail before Umbar ever declared war. Eastron devils!”

Aragorn frowned, looking around for the Umbaran boy and remembering he was with the Queen. “Indeed, you did tell me, and more than once. I hope you are deriving your proper due of satisfaction from being correct. Now that we have given the Steward credit for foreseeing this attack, perhaps we can talk of defending against it.”

The Steward saw amusement at his expense flicker in the Vigil’s eyes. “It is that creature that stands at your shoulder that has turned you against the good counsel of your own kind. Can you not see, Aragorn? The Elves are immortal; what do they care if you or I were to die? Or if this city were to fall? They have seen many lifetimes of Men and we are as insects to them.”

“I hear one buzzing now,” Legolas said. “A poisonous fly with a painful sting.”

“You dare insult me in this Council Chamber?”

“Aye, and in any chamber you wish to occupy, Steward. You know in what regard I hold you. Why do you continue to be outraged when I speak against you? Surely it is expected.”

“Tell me how you have gained this hold over the Heir,” Denethor leaned across the table. “How have you bewitched him into turning his back on those that have loved him from the cradle? What have you done to put him thus in your thrall?”

Legolas leaped onto the polished wood and off the other side. Raising his right hand, he pushed it into Denethor’s face. A shaft of sunlight from a high window kindled fire in the jewel set in the Vigil’s ring. “You speak of what you do not know,” the Elf said. “I know what it is to be in thrall, to be always aware of the presence of my ward and of my responsibility toward him, always aware of the eternal despair that awaits should I fail him. You are an old man fearful of losing his power, but you do not see that it is your very fears that have caused this loss. Do not speak to me again of spells or enslavement until you have suffered them yourself.”

“I will not stay and be threatened in this hallowed chamber,” Denethor said, stepping away from the Elf. “Aragorn, if you still care about Gondor’s fate, you will attend me in my quarters as soon as you have leisure.”

Aragorn’s other ministers pretended to have only now regained their hearing as the Heir dismissed them to their duties. The Gondorian fleet was already on the river and blockades were set. The Knights were on alert, ready to don armor and ride to the riverbank at the sound of the trumpet. An answer had been dispatched to the King of Umbar. There was little else to be done here. Rising, Aragorn made his way to where he truly wished to be, in the domain of the Healers.

“You were very harsh with the Steward,” Aragorn said to the Vigil as they strode along.

“The Man has a talent for making me lose my temper. It was unseemly.”

“Indeed it was, but I suppose it was only the truth,” Aragorn said, as he walked through the gate of the gardens that surrounded the Houses. “You are in thrall to me.”

“To your blood,” the Vigil corrected.

“Yes, of course. How could I have forgotten? You only care because I am Isildur’s Heir.”

Legolas hurt the raw pain in his charge’s voice, but could not divine a cause for it. He caught up with Aragorn and stopped him, but the Heir looked past his shoulder, eyes wide. The Vigil turned and beheld a sight to stop any Man in his tracks.

tbc


	15. Part Fifteen: baileymoyes — LiveJournal

An LotR a/u. Please see chapter one for synopsis.  
This chapter rated PG13.  
Warning: No specific warnings, hint of het.  
Disclaimer: These characters belong to Prof. Tolkien and I mean no disrespect by writing about them.  
Thank you, Jean.  
:::x::: :::x::: :::x:::

Castimir held out a large square of soft cloth. “My Lady Arwen,” he said. “We are no longer alone.”

Arwen turned her head and saw the Heir and the Vigil at his back. Without haste, she took the offered cloth and patted some of the water from her smooth skin. When she met Aragorn’s eyes, it was he that dropped his gaze.  
  
“Why stand you so far away?” the Elf maiden called.

Suppressing a smile, Legolas took the Heir’s arm and walked him to the fountain. “Have you finished your preparations?” the Elf asked.

“All but the settling of my spirit, which may take some time in this warren of stone,” Arwen paused and let her gaze drift down Aragorn’s rangy form. “And in the presence of such Men.”

“We will withdraw,” Aragorn said quickly.

“Nay,” Arwen answered. “Though you stir me, it is a disturbance easily quelled.”

Legolas gave her a reproving look. “You are aiming at a Man without armor, Lady.”

Arwen laughed and Aragorn’s heart gave a curious little leap. “Say you so, Prince? Well then, advise me, for my eye will always be seeking out the highest trophy.”

The Vigil could not but smile at her words. “I learned long ago not to spar with you. You have weapons at your disposal against which there is no defense.”

“I have never known your tongue to hold so much honey before. Is it possible that living among Men has tempered your steel?”

“Tis better to bend than to break,” Castimir said quietly.

“Hear this child,” Arwen laughed again. “Such wisdom.”

“The wisdom of a slave, Lady,” Castimir murmured.

“But you are a slave no longer,” Aragorn hastened to add.

“Nor a child,” Legolas said.

Arwen’s sharp eyes saw the way the Heir’s features stiffened at the Vigil’s words and she wondered at it. Being of a Race that spoke forthrightly, she was about to mention Aragorn’s seeming displeasure in the turn of the conversation, but she was forestalled by the ringing of alarm bells. The pealing of the tocsins was pierced by blasts from battle horns and soon the thunder of hooves on marble announced the charge of the Knights out the gates of the City. Arwen clothed herself in a trice, as her troop swarmed into the courtyard.

“Come,” the Vigil said to Aragorn. “It is time to stand at the head of your troops and show them what sort of King you wish to be.”

Aragorn nodded firmly, his hand going to the hilt of his sword. Arwen’s gaze dropped to the weapon as she strung her bow.

“That is a fine blade,” she said. “But here is a better.”

Legolas’s eyebrows rose as the Elf maid held out her sword belt. “Is that Isildur’s sword?”

“Yes and no. That blade was broken, but my father ordered it forged anew before sending me here. He bade me take the Heir’s measure and decide if the gift should be given.”

“His ancestor’s blade is his by right,” the Vigil said.

“True,” Arwen said, “but this is Narsil no longer. It is Anduril, Flame of the West, not to be wielded by lesser Men, but by one in whom the blood of Numenor flows strongly. The Blade That Was Broken is now imbued with the fire of the smiths of Elvendom. Any Man that dares draw it forth does so at his peril.”

Legolas put a hand on the Heir’s shoulder. Aragorn felt the heat of the Elf’s touch through the cloak, tunic and singlet and it heartened him. In that moment, he saw that he was not alone, as he had thought. Fate had decreed that for him the isolation attendant upon the exalted position of monarch would be leavened by the presence of the Vigil. Here was one that would never be too respectful of him, or hold him at too great a distance. The Elf was Aragorn’s equal in rank, but bound to serve him; he was the Man’s superior in combat, but dedicated to his protection. And he would always be there, whether Aragorn was a good King, or a poor one. He saw how unwarranted and unworthy had been his jealousy; this shining, immortal being would belong to him first, and to no other, until one of them died.

The Heir had always understood, better than most, the awesome responsibility that comes with power, but now he perceived a new facet of his duty to those that owed him their allegiance. He wanted those that served him to be proud of him, not merely out of loyalty to his lineage, but because he deserved their respect and good regard.

Squaring his shoulders, he stretched out his hand to the sword that Arwen held. Anduril was unsheathed with a sound like ripping silk, and Aragorn was moved to thrust it into the air above his head. Light ran like water down the straight blade, glinting off the runes graven there, reflecting off the polished steel to find its echo in the Heir’s argent blue eyes. The company of Citadel Knights that entered the courtyard knelt as one man and drew their weapons in salute. The warriors of Arwen’s troop stood bemused until the Prince of Mirkwood bent his knee, bowed his proud head and drew forth Aiglosithil. Aragorn pulled his gaze from Anduril and beheld his Vigil, kneeling at his feet, and beyond the Elf, all those others doing him homage.

“Rise,” he said, the words coming easily to his lips, as though his ancestors spoke through him. “Rise Men of Gondor and Elves of the Woodland Realm. I would have none kneel to me again until I have proven myself worthy of that honor. We are all equals here today as we face the forces of Umbar. I go now to defend Minas Tirith against any that would raise weapon against her. Who will fight with me?”

Faramir entered the courtyard at a run, the Twain at his back, as the gathered warriors sprang to their feet with a mighty cry. “My Prince,” the Steward’s son said when the echoes had died. “I have come to stand at your side.”

Aragorn noted the armor that his friend wore and the broadsword that hung at Faramir’s side. “Is that not Boromir’s blade?”

“He knows I have it,” Faramir half-smiled.

“Ah,” the Heir answered. “Then naught is amiss. Shall we go and make the acquaintance of our uninvited guests, my lords?”

Another wordless war cry shivered the air. Aragorn began to march, holding Anduril before him like a weathervane of woe, and the Knights fell in behind him. Legolas was on his right, Faramir on his left, with the Elven brethren at either shoulder. The Vigil glanced back, exchanging an eager, flame-eyed glance with Elladan and Elrohir, and the Men of the column felt their spirits soar with a terrible joy. A young Knight raised his voice, chanting ancient staves of glory to the cadence of boots on stone and his brothers-in-arms joined in. Faramir looked sideways when he heard Aragorn’s warm baritone and saw a new light in his friend’s eyes. It struck him then that sometime during the journey to rescue Queen Gilraen, Aragorn had become a man in more than name. Faramir’s heart swelled and a grin as feral as any Elf’s stretched his lips as they strode singing from that place.

“Lady?” said Arwen’s second-in-command.

“Go,” she said. “I have business here, but never fear, we shall meet on a red field.”

As the company of Elves raced through the gate, Arwen entered the Houses of Healing. The physicians bowed to her, doing honor to the daughter of Lord Elrond of Rivendell, whose healing powers were legendary. At her quiet word, they left her alone with the son of the Steward of Gondor. In truth, they were relieved to be dismissed to prepare for the wounded that would be arriving all too soon. The door closed behind them, and Arwen approached the mighty form of the warrior on the bed.

Forgotten amidst the clamor, Castimir picked up the damp squares of linen and hung them over a rail to dry.  
:::x:::|:::x:::|:::x:::

Aragorn lead the way to the stables, picking up more Men along the way like tributaries joining a fast running river. Squires in sable and silver stood holding the reins of armored chargers as the Knights mounted. Horses were found for their Elven allies, but the Galadrim declined the offer of armor. Leather pauldrons on their shoulders and vambraces to strengthen their forearms were all the protection the Elves wore over tunics and leggings. They relied on their speed and skill with long range weaponry to keep them alive, though when it came down to close quarters, they did not shy from the wet, red work. The Heir had seen the pair of long knives sheathed in the Vigil’s quiver many times, but had never seen them employed, and had no wish to today. It was his fervent hope that they could repel the Umbarans from the walls. Giving Legolas a solemn nod, Aragorn raised his gloved hand to signal the column to move forward.

“What is this madness?” Denethor roared as he swept through the arched entrance to the stable yard. ‘’

“Please do not bar the way,” Aragorn said, as the Steward reached for the bridle. The Heir’s restive warhorse tossed his noble head with a jingling of tack and a ripple of silken trappings. Aragorn pressed his knees tighter against the warm hide and murmured soothingly to the battle-trained charger. “You have been as an uncle to me,” the Heir said to the Steward. “I do not wish to see you come to harm.”

“Aragorn, if you love Gondor, you will dismount and give over command to my lesser son that rides behind you. Or if you will not, then at least let me send for your armor.”

“We haven’t the time,” Aragorn said. “It is my place to lead the first charge and that is what I shall do. None shall gainsay me in this.”

“Faramir!” Denethor called out. “Aragorn will listen to you. Tell him he cannot do this.”

Faramir stared at a point somewhere over his father’s right shoulder. “Aragorn,” he said dully. “You cannot do this. There. Have I pleased you, father?”

Denethor sneered as his gaze turned to the Vigil. “And you, will you not for the Heir’s safety, use your influence?”

“I will use whatever skill I have to bring my ward back from battle alive and whole.”

“Bah!” Denethor whirled in a swirl of heavy fur-trimmed velvet. “Close the gates,” he ordered the guards. “The Heir is not to leave the City.”

One of the guards jumped to do the Steward’s bidding, but the other hesitated and looked to the Heir. Aragorn raised his hand, and let it drop. Denethor was forced to scurry out of the way or be bowled over as the line of horsemen moved forward.

:::x:::

Boromir rose from his bed and walked to the parapet, his feet hardly seeming to touch the ground. At his side walked a maiden more beautiful than anything he had ever considered beautiful before. She pointed, and Boromir saw as with the eyes of an Eagle the column of Knights at the river gate with Aragorn at their head. He saw the ships that did battle upon the back of the mighty Anduin. The great battle cruisers of the Royal Fleet with sails like clouds engaged the swarm of smaller vessels with scarlet snakes writhing on black canvas. Faint but clear, Boromir could hear war cries and the screams of the wounded, as the defenders of Minas Tirith strove against the invaders. Unnoticed by all but he, four Umbaran warriors went over the side of their boat, submerged and were lost to sight. The prickle of uneasiness became a flutter of panic in Boromir’s middle as he searched the river’s edge for sign of the soldiers. They were no ordinary Men, of that he was sure; they were armed with black magic as well as cold steel and each had Romen’s darkly beautiful features. “Demons!” the Captain shouted a warning.

Arwen’s brows creased in a slight frown as she pressed the Man back against the linen. He walked in dreams that were not memories, but as she had caught only glimpses, she was wary of calling it a prophetic vision. Her father had the long sight and often what he dreamed awake came to pass in the fullness of time, but Captain Boromir was a Man, though he came of an ancient line. With a calming breath, she exerted her will and rejoined him in his dreams, influencing the path they took that she might mend his broken mind.

Boromir turned from the pleasant view across the Pelennor to the Anduin. The one that called his name so sweetly stood before the fountain clothed only in sunlight, stretching forth her hand in invitation. For a long moment, the bold Captain stood in stunned awe of the riches on display and then hurried forward to join her. Without seeming to move, she receded in his vision and he moved faster, following the beckoning apparition until they reached the Hallows where stood likenesses of all the Kings of Gondor there ever were.

“Boromir,” Arwen called again. “Here lie the noble dead of your people. Would you take a place among them, or have you the heart to go on living and be of use? For I tell you truly, if you do not break the hold of the Shadow upon your mind, you will dwindle in body, as you do in spirit, and your days will be short in number. Speak now, Man. Do you choose life?”

Boromir beheld her alluring figure of enticing curves and sumptuous beauty. “If you represent life, Lady, then I will have all of it that I may.”

Arwen’s perfect lips curved in a smile. “You may have all that a Man can claim.”

And she was gone, her laughter floating on the air behind her like the perfumed spoor of some mythical, magical creature, which indeed she was. Boromir sprang after, his fingertips tingling with the desire to stroke the silk of her sable tresses, the satin of her softly glowing skin. He longed to feel the warmth and weight of her in his arms, as he tasted the sweetness of her ripe, red mouth. The ground rose under his feet, the air becoming thinner, until his great chest heaved with the effort of drawing it into his lungs, and still the maiden danced ahead of him, her flying hair hiding and revealing her charms. They reached the pinnacle with nothing above them but blue and the world spread out below like the green blankets in the Houses of Healing.

Boromir lunged for the lady, but she rose up out of his reach and he fell. Though it seemed he was leagues and leagues above the ground, he landed gently before he had time to fear. The land about him was dark, the sky the color of cold ash, and he sensed the lurking presence of demons behind each rock and withered tree, but it was familiar. With relief, he recognized the landscape he had dwelt in since Romen had cursed him. At least here, the devils did not go in disguise and he could kill them when they attacked.

“Boromir, do not linger here. I know it is frightening to let go, but this is the domain of the Shadow. Though the ground feels solid, it is only illusion. Come to me.”

A sweet, elusive scent threaded the stink of sulphur, hot iron and charnel rot and Boromir closed his eyes to better imagine the angel of light.

“Leave this place behind,” she said. “It is a trick of the Darkness to keep you in thrall. Cast off fear and be one with me.”

With a wild cry, Boromir reached up like a sinking man clutching at a rope. His hand was taken in a firm grip, and he was pulled forth from the Shadow in a rough rebirth. Opening eyes from which the veil had been removed, the Captain met the morning glory gaze of Arwen Undomiel and was ensnared.

“Lady,” he said, shocked by how weak he sounded. “I am yours.”

“And what will your liege lord say to that, I wonder?” Arwen asked, as she released the Man’s hand. “You are clean of the taint of the East; my work here is done and I would be with my comrades. Fare you well, Captain, until I see you again. Wish me good hunting.”

Boromir tried to rise and quickly found that he was as weak as he sounded. He watched the Elf maiden gather her weaponry and march to the door, wishing he had the strength to leap to his feet and follow. As she left without a backward glance, Boromir managed to raise his voice above a whisper. “Good hunting,” he called after her, and she tossed him a smile over her shoulder, but she did not slow her steps. Her heartbeat high and hard, the Lady Arwen ran to join her troop already in the thick of the fray.

tbc


	16. Part Sixteen: baileymoyes — LiveJournal

An LotR a/u. Please see chapter one for synopsis.  
This chapter rated R.  
Warnings: Violence, brief het.  
Disclaimer: These characters belong to Prof. Tolkien and I mean no disrespect by writing about them.  
Thank you, Jean.  
:::x::: :::x::: :::x:::

Legolas whirled, a blade in each hand, and two of the enemy fell. His eye sought Aragorn, and saw the giant that charged the Heir. The Umbaran was easily seven feet tall, wielding a scimitar in one hand and a pike in the other, he alternately speared and beheaded any that stood in his way. Frantically, the Elf leaped over a fallen Knight, every fiber of his being propelling him toward Aragorn. He must reach his ward in time; he must. In despair he watched the great curved blade swing in an arc that would decapitate the Heir. With a clang of metal on metal, a slim figure darted between the colossus and his victim. Arwen Undomiel staved off the blow that would have split Aragorn’s skull in twain until the Man ran his opponent through and turned to give battle.  
  
“There is enough of him for both of us,” she shouted exultantly.

“Indeed, my lady,” Aragorn answered, standing shoulder to shoulder with her as together they defeated the Umbaran’s great champion. The Man returned the Elf maiden’s wolfish grin of triumph and saw her amaranthine eyes widen. She plunged her blade over his shoulder, and the ax stroke meant to cleave him went awry. The flat of the weapon slammed into the side of the Heir’s head and his world went black. Arwen lowered him to the ground with one arm as she fended off attack with the other. Standing over the Man, she defended him until the Vigil scythed a path to her side.

“Take him out of here,” Legolas commanded.

“It is not clear to me why the daughter of Elrond should take orders from a Prince of Mirkwood,” she said, throwing a dagger that took a foe in the eye.

“As a boon then,” Legolas spun, dispatching two warriors with his whirling blades.

“To have Legolas the Fair in my debt,” she mused. “It is a bargain.” Calling her troop to rally around her, Rivendell’s princess bore the Heir to Gondor’s throne from the field of battle. To the Houses of Healing they took him, and laid him carefully upon a bed in a room where there were no others. Doffing her bloodstained garments, she sank down to her knees and took the Man’s hand in hers. She reached through the mists that clouded Aragorn’s mind and drew him back to the waking world. His fingers tightened on hers as their eyes met, not masked by any social convention. Aragorn tugged lightly, and she came to him, climbing onto the bed to crouch over him, the battle lust still burning in her blood.

Boromir stopped in the doorway, withdrawing into the hall, unwilling to interrupt though the sight of his angel atop the Heir smote his heart a staggering blow. He should have known that such a one was not for him. How often had his father told him that Elves were too different to ever live peacefully with Men? Elvish ways were not the ways of Man, this Boromir knew from the cradle, but never had it been brought home to him so forcefully. That she who had touched his very soul, braiding it with her own immortal spirit, could so casually bed another was beyond his comprehension as a human. Clenching his great hands into fists, he stole away from the room where the two he loved most in the world stabbed at him with each sigh of pleasure.  
::=:: : ::=:: : ::=::

The morning dawned fresh and chill, a wind from the North scouring the clotted clouds from the dome of the heavens. The Umbaran sentries shivered in the unaccustomed cold as they walked their posts on a hard won beachhead. More ships had arrived under cover of darkness, bringing conscripts from Harad and Khand and the pale waxing light revealed the camp they’d begun setting up. It was clear to those that watched from the walls of the White City that the enemy was preparing for a siege.

The Steward leaned over the parapet as he checked the number of ships on the river against the tally in the latest reports. It seemed his spies were at least capable of counting. He glanced aside at the group of Elves whose presence he could feel like a dark cloud between him and the sun. The unnatural creatures stalked about in their haughty way as though they owned each patch of ground they set foot upon. They spoke their minds with equal bluntness whether they addressed a stable boy or a lord. There were many Elvish traits that Denethor found disturbing, but it was their utter lack of regard for rank that vexed him on a daily basis. And there was none so blatant in lack of respect for the office of Steward as the Vigil. Denethor’s face curdled as his gaze fell on the object of his dissatisfaction. As ever, the moon-haired monster hovered at the Heir’s shoulder.

“My lord?”

Denethor looked down to see the Umbaran boy at his elbow. “Do not creep up on me,” he said sternly. “What is it you want?”

“I, my lord? I do not have desires; I fulfill them.”

Denethor turned to give the impertinent former slave the full force of his glare. He was relieved to note that the shameless foreigner was decently covered in deference to the cold. “I do not suffer impudence. If you have a message from your… master, give it to me.”

Castimir gave the Steward his most charming smile. “You do not like the white prince,” he said. “You believe it would be better for your kingdom if he were gone.”

Denethor’s eyes narrowed. “I have no time for this,” he warned the boy.

“I too wish the Elf to leave,” Castimir elaborated.

“Why would you wish that? You live in luxury here.”

Castimir glanced at the Vigil, catching the rapt look on Legolas’s face as he gazed at the Heir. “I wish to be where the King of Gondor is not,” he said softly.

“Ahhhhh.” This was something Denethor could comprehend. The pretty Umbaran was jealous of the Elf’s devotion to Aragorn. At last, the Steward had found the weapon he could use against the arrogant Vigil. “We should speak more on this matter,” he said.

“As my lord wills it,” Castimir said, inclining his head gracefully. “I will go see to the Queen.”

The Steward watched the lissome foreigner move away through the throng of officers, councilors and military advisors that had gathered to observe the foe in the first light of day. He’d wager the Vigil would not see trouble coming from that direction; the proud Prince of Mirkwood seemed to look on the boy as a sort of pet, the same way he regarded all mortals, the Steward suspected.

“What portends that mighty frown?” Aragorn spoke a few feet before reaching the Steward. “Could the King of Umbar but see your face, he would sail away.”

“Perhaps you can find aught to smile about this morning, but not I.”

“Nay, it is a dark dawn indeed,” the Heir said. “I did not mean to be frivolous.”

“Did you not? It seemed so to me. If you will excuse me, I must speak with the engineers and then I will take a few moments to visit my son in the Houses of Healing.”

“Go and see Boromir,” Aragorn urged. “Go now. I am well provided with advisors and I am certain that Boromir would be pleased to see you.”

“I do not understand why he may not be released from the care of the Healers.”

“Not here, I beg you,” Aragorn said, leaning close to the Steward. “I would not wish all Gondor to learn that her greatest Captain has lost his wits. I am certain that the Healers with the help of the Lady Evenstar will free his mind from the Shadow.”

Denethor’s frown deepened. “I do not approve of the diagnosis or the cure,” he said. “But I am over-ruled in every decision recently.”

“That is only how it appears to you. You are still my chief counselor, though no longer the only one. Put aside duty for a few moments. Leave the decisions to others and go to your son. He needs you.”

Denethor looked as though he would speak, but he turned without a word and walked away.

“You were strangely silent,” Aragorn said over his shoulder.

“I had nothing to add,” Legolas answered.

Aragorn went to stand where the Steward had stood, letting his entourage see that he required some moments to himself. The Vigil alone joined him as he looked down upon the Umbaran fleet like toy boats in a pool. “So many,” the Heir said.

“Enough to blockade the river and hold off the Gondorian Fleet,” the Elf answered.

“Thank you for that comfort.”

Legolas put a hand on the young Man’s shoulder, standing directly behind him. “I promised to speak the truth to you.”

Aragorn sighed. “I must remember to be more careful with my words. Tell me, my guardian; do you think our allies will answer?”

“Lord Elrond sent his only daughter and his sons already stand with us. More warriors will come from Rivendell,” the Elf said confidently.

“And Mirkwood?”

“The King of Mirkwood is not so fond of his offspring as the ruler of Rivendell.”

“You have often said this, but it is hard for me to fathom a father that would not be proud of such a son as you.”

“You see only my best side,” the Vigil said with a hint of humor.

Aragorn caught movement from the corner of his eye and turned his head to watch the Elf’s hair dance with the capricious wind. “I hope that is not true,” he said.

Legolas smiled at the Heir’s joke, touched by his ward’s courage. “They frighten you,” he said, looking down at the shore where black robed Umbaran sorcerers whirled around fires that burned without fuel.

“Dark magic frightens me,” Aragorn admitted.

“Good. Perhaps you will not take it lightly then.”

Aragorn shivered and the Vigil longed to wrap his arms around the mortal, sheltering him from the elements and all other harm, but he held himself in check. The commander of the Knights of Gondor could not be seen taking comfort like a child in his mother’s embrace. If Legolas did not do all he could to make the young Man strong, he failed in his duty, and the compulsion did not allow that. The spell that bound the Vigil to the Heir made it impossible for the Elf to act in a way that would bring lasting harm to Aragorn. Legolas had not known the implications of his decision when he had volunteered to undertake this mission, but he no longer fought the call of his destiny. Rash, blind hatred had bound him to the scion of Elendil’s house; he would not let it blight his service. He had more honor than that. Therefore, he stood as close as propriety allowed and looked over the Man’s shoulder.

“What will they do?” Aragorn asked.

“I cannot say,” Legolas admitted. “I have no great knowledge of Eastern sorcery.”

“I wish Mithrandir was here, but if we are lacking a wizard, I suppose we mortals will have to muddle through on our own somehow.”

“As I have no doubt you will.”

Aragorn looked back in surprise and his jaw brushed the Vigil’s cheek. The young man did his best not to act flustered, but his heart was beating so fast it was heating his blood. With an abrupt movement, he stepped away from the Elf. “I… Your confidence in me is most… Thank you, Prince Legolas.”

“You are welcome,” the Vigil said. “Your head wound looks well; Lady Arwen is very skilled. I have not seen her today, but perhaps the battle tired her.”

“I believe she has gone hunting with her brothers,” Aragorn said vaguely. “Ah, here is Faramir. What news? It is good news to judge by that smile.”

“My brother seems recovered,” Faramir said. “He tells me that the Lady Arwen guided him back from the Land of Shadows. He spoke most lovingly of her in such language as I have never heard him utter.”

“The daughter of Elrond is wondrous fair,” Legolas said. “And her spirit is strong.”

“I am very grateful to her for healing Boromir,” Faramir said. “I wish I could say the same for my father. He all but accused the Lady of seeking to control Boromir’s mind.”

“And he still draws breath?” the Vigil asked.

“She was not there to hear, but Boromir defended her to our sire’s dismay. I should not have taken such pleasure in my father’s discomfiture, but I ashamed to say that I did.”

“I think you might be forgiven,” Aragorn smiled. “Is Boromir demanding his sword yet?”

“He is eager to return to battle,” Faramir said. “The Healers have not yet released him however and I think they are wise.”

“What troubles you about Boromir’s recovery?” Aragorn asked.

“I can hide nothing from you, my friend,” Faramir answered. “I am worried that Boromir is still obsessed with the Umbaran boy. If he catches sight of Castimir, he begins to rave about destroying Romen. When Lady Arwen returns, I hope she will see him again.”

“It is daylight,” Legolas said. “She will return soon.”

“You sound certain,” Faramir said.

The Vigil shrugged. “Even Arwen must rest and after a night of hunting enemy scouts, she will be ready for her bed.”

“Of course,” Faramir nodded sagely. “Aragorn, if I may say it, you do not look as if you slept well. Let me lead the first charge today.”

“I am able,” Aragorn waved away the offer. “Come, my brothers; it is time to take counsel and decide how best to send these Umbarans home.”

All day the battle continued in feints and sallies as more Umbaran allies arrived. Late that evening the first Oliphants were spotted moving over the Pelennor. With them came the great engines of war, catapults, arbalests and battering rams. As darkness fell, the Eastern sorcerers completed their ritual and a heaviness of spirit descended with the night. Even the staunchest of the defenders felt his heart turn to lead in his breast and hope fled with the last flicker of light on the water. In the cabin of his flagship, the Umbaran King sensed the presence of his brother inside the walls of the city that he intended to crack like a nut.

“Soon,” Romen said to the gathering dark.

tbc


	17. baileymoyes — LiveJournal

Part Seventeen of an LotR A/U  
Rated: PG13  
Warning: Angst, talk of sex  
Disclaimer: These marvelous characters were created by Tolkien.  
Thank you, Jean.  
A/N: I didn’t realize how long it had been since I updated. My apologies.  
::: : ::: : ::: : ::: : :::

“They will be inside the first circle of the City by midday tomorrow,” Denethor said, as he glanced around the room. “It has been evacuated, but it would be a great blow to lose it.”  
  
“I understand,” Aragorn answered wearily as the Vigil helped him remove his armor. “The Knights are doing all that Men can do to hold them at bay.”

“Men like my younger son?” Denethor sneered. “Boromir is healed. Give him back his troop and let him lead the defense. This is not a lesson in kingship; the lives of all that dwell in Minas Tirith are in peril. You are not ready for this test, Aragorn. Do not let pride bring down this great City.”

“Enough,” Legolas said sharply. “You cannot accuse the Heir of pride when you will allow him none. Go now, and let him rest.”

“We have much to discuss,” Denethor said. “A plan must be made for fighting the…”

“He is fighting. Every day,” the Elf said, moving closer to the Steward. “He is in the forefront with a sword in his hand. And now he needs rest, not some duel of words.”

“Please go,” Aragorn said. “I promise I will come early to morning council.”

Denethor nodded curtly and left for his meeting with the head of the stonemasons’ guild. Faramir dropped into a chair and poured a goblet of wine. He offered the drink to Aragorn, but it was waved away. The Heir sank gratefully to sit on the side of his bed while the Vigil rubbed the soreness from his back and shoulders. After wielding several pounds of metal all day long, Aragorn had a greater appreciation for blacksmiths. “Where are your shadows?” he asked Faramir.

“They have made a habit of hunting at night,” Faramir said. “They tell me that they and their sister are engaged in a competition. A point is counted for each of the enemy slain.”

“Is my friend Faramir having fun with me?” Aragorn asked Legolas.

“No, but he is simplifying the game a bit. It is true that a point is awarded for a kill, but not all kills count the same. The Umbarans brought magic-workers with them and they are worth many points. The Twain and the Lady would be keen to test their mettle.”

Faramir raised his glass to the Elf. “You are a very pragmatic people,” he said admiringly. “If I survive this war, I hope to travel to Rivendell and learn more about Elves firsthand.”

“I think you would be most welcome,” Legolas said, as slipped a robe over Aragorn’s head. “Pour some wine for the Heir now, please.”

“That was almost gracious,” Faramir commented, as he poured. “Are we folk of the City taming you, Prince of the Woodland Realm?”

“I do not speak as bluntly to children as I do to adults,” Legolas said as he took the goblet. “Are you not weary, Lord Faramir?”

“Very weary indeed,” Faramir took the hint, rising from his chair. “I will leave you to your rest, Aragorn.”

Aragorn stood and clasped his friend to his chest. “Remember all the hours we whiled away amid the stacks of books reading of ancient battles? It did not prepare us for this, did it?”

Faramir returned the embrace warmly. “Yes it did,” he said. “For it was there that you learned that my father’s view of the world was not the only one. You learned to think for yourself, and that is what will win this war. Good night,” he said as he let Aragorn go.

“Good night,” Aragorn echoed, kissing Faramir’s cheek as he pulled away.

“A good man,” Legolas said as the door closed behind Faramir and they were alone.

“I wish his father knew it.”

“Nay,” the Elf said. “It is Faramir that must see that his father’s opinion of him is not the only one that matters.”

Aragorn looked at the Vigil suspiciously. “Are you mocking Faramir?”

“You mortals give advice so freely, yet seldom follow it yourselves. No more talking. It is time for you to sleep.”

“I am not sure I can.”

“Are you merely troubled by the Steward’s words, or are you ready to tell me what has darkened your gaze for two days and nights?”

“If I would tell anyone, it would be you.”

“Not Faramir?”

“Some day, but I would tell you first, because… you deserve to be first.”

The Elf finished unlacing his tunic and laid it aside. “Tell me then.”

“I know why I am a failure, why I am not worthy of the throne of Gondor, why I will never be the leader my people need. I am weak, Legolas, weak.”

“We are all weak at times, but we do not let it rule us. We are brave despite our fears. We are strong in defiance of our weaknesses.”

“I cannot fight this one. I have tried, but even while holding the loveliest woman I have ever beheld in my arms, I could not…”

Legolas got down on one knee in front of the Heir and remained there until Aragorn met his eyes. “What was it you could not do?” he asked softly.

“I wanted her,” Aragorn said. “You must believe me. She was warm, beautiful and so willing. She came to my arms with eyes afire and she kindled lust in me, but when it came time… I failed. I could not…”

“You could not satisfy her?”

Aragorn’s head came up. “I have reason to believe she was well satisfied,” he said. “But I could not keep my manhood aroused unless I thought of you.”

“You desire me?” Legolas stood, clad in nothing but his Vigil’s ring and that astonishing drift of winter-fair hair that reached to his waist when unbound.

“I will not pretend differently. I do desire you. I think it started when you rode up the steps of the palace and knelt at my feet as you were kneeling just now. Except that you wore more clothing then. I had never seen a being so beautiful as you, so proud and so free. I am drawn to you and it is getting harder to resist every day.”

“Perhaps it is just the magical bond between us.”

Aragorn shook his head. “I felt it before you put the sword in my hand, but I did not know what it was. I was so excited to finally see one of Elfkind face to face. Since then that excitement has changed and grown stronger until I must struggle constantly against it.”

Legolas smiled. “I feel the same yearning to join with you,” he said. “I can send word to Castimir to stay in the Houses of Healing tonight.”

“I wish that,” Aragorn said softly.

“Then it shall be so,” the Vigil vowed.  
:: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: ::

Castamir leaned over Queen Gilraen’s still form, watching her face for signs only he would recognize. She dreamed, and her dreams were pleasant, of her girlhood spent riding and avoiding the womanly pursuits her mother sought in vain to teach her. Untroubled and free, she roamed the lands of her royal father, unaware of the great honor that awaited her when she came early to womanhood. The Umbaran stroked her brow and she felt the chill wind of passage as she raced her tall pony away from the castle.

“Very clever, brother.”

Castamir’s head came up and he whirled around. The voice had spoken only in his head, but he felt the unmistakable roiling of the atmosphere that presaged a manifestation. The air bubbled like a spring, particles running along his bare skin like insects fleeing a fire. With a sound like a cork drawn from a bottle, a black clad figure appeared in the chamber. The Umbaran boy recognized the newcomer and began to chant rapidly under his breath.

“That charm will avail you naught,” Romen said as he unwound the silken scarf that veiled his hair and face. “I have purchased the aid of one more powerful than your patron.”

“There is only one with more power than my mentor,” Castamir said, gazing on his mirror image. “And you would not risk entangling your spirit with His.”

“You have no idea what I would dare to see you crushed, brother.”

“Why? Why do you hate me so? Is it because I am your elder? We should unite for there is none that could stand against our combined might.”

“I do not hate you, brother. I want to rid Middle Earth of your stain. You are a mad, misbegotten monster and I cannot have others knowing we share blood.”

“It is you that is mad. You place that mutilated scarecrow on your throne and play the concubine slave. Are these the actions of a sane ruler?”

“Do you deny that you schemed to destroy my kingdom by starting a war between Umbar and Gondor?”

“Your kingdom, little brother?” Castamir sniffed. “And I deny nothing. You speak of schemes? Your brain could not grasp the pattern I am weaving. You cannot even see all of the threads.”

“Swagger all you like. Your plans end here with your death.”

“You would like to believe that. Before you attempt to kill me will you tell me how you found me? I thought myself quite well hidden after the Gondorian rescue party took my ship.”

“How it must have galled you, the great Corsair King, to give up your flagship and masquerade as a slave. Why does that ruse sound familiar to me?”

“Shut your hole,” Castimir hissed. “I am nothing like you, nothing!”

Romen laughed softly. “You are mad as a nest of hornets. There is nowhere you can hide from me, though I admit, you made it very difficult by gaining the protection of Gondor’s Heir. A war is not what I wanted and you will suffer for making me come to Minas Tirith.”

“I do not fear you,” Castimir soot dark eyes burned into Romen’s.

“That is why you are a fool for you should fear me. I have grown mighty while you were pillaging the coast.”

Castimir glanced suspiciously around the room as the light dimmed. His gaze returned to his brother and his uneasiness grew along with the red light in Romen’s black eyes. The scarlet glow waxed until the Umbaran’s ruler’s eyes appeared as two orbs of ruby crystal wherein flames swirled as though stirred by a whirlwind. “What have you done?” Castimir hissed.

Romen smiled as great, hollow voice spoke in Castimir’s skull, whispering secrets no mortal could bear to hear, searing the Corsair King’s brain, blasting his mind, leaving only remnants of sanity like wisps of smoke. Moving closer, Romen removed a glove and put his palm against Castimir’s smooth cheek. “Now brother,” he said. “Tell me everything.”  
:: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: ::

Faramir turned from the window, searching his bedchamber for intruders. Though he had not heard a sound, he nonetheless felt that someone had entered the room. Movement in his peripheral vision warned him and he spun to the right. As he did, he was grabbed from the left and his arms pinned to his sides. Faramir struggled wildly until he recognized the soft laughter in his ears. “I yield,” he said and was released.

Elrohir and Elladan grinned at the human and Elrohir held out his hand. On his palm was a small shining heap of metal. Pinching it between thumb and forefinger, the Elf unwound a chain of red gold links with an enameled medallion depicting a red serpent on black. Faramir took it, studying the pendant as it dangled in front of his face. “It looks almost like a dragon’s eye,” he murmured. “Did this belong to an Umbaran sorcerer?”

Elrohir nodded. “A gift for you.”

“Thank you,” Faramir said with more courtesy than genuine gratitude. In truth, the amulet felt greasy in his fingers and he didn’t particularly want the enemy’s sigil in his chambers. However, he didn’t wish to offend the Elves and placed the trophy on a table with a few other objects of real or sentimental value. “I wish I had something to give you in return.”

“Do you remember once you told me you were not meant for maids?” Elladan asked.

“It is not something I am likely to forget.”

“Would you grant us your company this night?” Elrohir said impatiently.

“You both wish to… be with me?”

“If there is one of us you prefer, the other will withdraw,” Elladan said gently.

“I am a little shocked, but I will not lie. I have thought of this and more than once, even though it is…”

“What?” Elrohir asked when Faramir paused.

“Wild,” the mortal whispered.

“Do you wish to be wild?” Elladan asked.

Faramir nodded, his nerves singing with the exhilaration of stepping out of bounds. “I do not know how to begin,” he said.

“That will not trouble you for long,” Elrohir predicted, lifting Faramir’s chin on his fingers. Elladan moved behind Faramir, embracing him warmly. Faramir gave himself into the hands of the twins and followed where they led.  
:: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: ::

Arwen refreshed herself after her night of hunting and sought the heights to let the wind clear her mind before she rested. “Captain!” she called out, recognizing the broad-shouldered figure on the parapet.

Boromir turned as she approached, his eyes dwelling on her untamed loveliness though it was sweet torture for him. “Lady,” he inclined his head to her. “You are up late.”

“It seems we are not the sort that can sleep without a last look at the enemy.”

“Ah, but then I shall sleep like a babe in arms.”

Arwen’s laughter gladdened the air. “Were you ever truly young?” she asked.

“Tomorrow’s battle will be decisive,” Boromir changed the subject. “The Umbaran ranks swell each day, while our ranks dwindle. If reinforcements do not arrive soon…”

“Then we will make a glorious end,” she said, leaning close. “Do you fear that you may die on the morrow?”

“I am not immortal,” he answered.

“Then perhaps we should do as so many others are doing on this night.”

The Captain looked upon the Elf maiden, drinking in her beauty like a draft of spring water. “Sharpening our swords?”

Arwen’s laughter belled out again. “I will hone yours for you and give it a sheath besides.”

Boromir hesitated. “Aragorn,” he said simply.

“Will not be harmed if we join,” she assured him.

Boromir swept her up in his great arms, crushing her to his chest in a fierce embrace that she returned with equal strength. Raising her face to the starlight, she invited a kiss and Boromir was quick to accept. The sentries that patrolled this sector gave the parapet a wide berth as they made their rounds, until Man and Elf departed to seek privacy.

tbc


	18. baileymoyes — LiveJournal

Part Eighteen of an LotR A/U  
Rated NC17  
Warning: m/m sexual situations, threesome, het.  
Thank you, Jean and Merry Christmas to all!  
::x:: ::x:: ::x::

“By all the Powers, lass,” Boromir groaned. “I have never known your like.”  
  
“You mean you have never known one of the Galadrim?” Arwen bent her neck and trailed the ends of her silken hair over the Man’s bare chest again. His grip tightened on her hips, big hands splayed over nacreous flesh, holding her steady as she bestrode him.

“Tis a wonder, but I care not that you are of Elfkind. There is naught of evil in you. You are a beacon of Light and you brought me out of the Darkness. I scarce know what to call this feeling in my breast unless it be love.”

Arwen flexed the powerful muscles of her thighs and Boromir sighed with pleasure. “You are of the Light as well, you know. Will you fight beside me on the morrow?”

Boromir surged up off the mattress and rolled her beneath him, looking down into her expectant gaze. “I will,” he vowed. “For as long as you will have me as your shield-brother.”

Arwen’s eyebrows went up. “Shield-brother? I am honored, Captain, but I hope to be somewhat more than a sister to you.”

The warrior laughed heartily and leaned in to kiss her. “My father will never understand,” he mused.

“What has your father to do with this?” Arwen arched her back, pressing her pelvis more firmly against Boromir’s.

“Nothing, lass, nothing at all,” he said, as she drew him down for another kiss.

::=:: : ::=:: : ::=::

“I think this alliance of Elves and Men is a good one,” Elladan murmured, his lips brushing the sensitive skin of Faramir’s taut, quivering lower belly. “Are you ready for this union?”

“Yes,” Faramir gasped, as the Elf’s cool, slim fingers moved on his Manhood. “Yes, I am ready. Until this moment, I did not know how long I had waited.”

Elrohir withdrew his fingers and seated the tip of his oiled arousal at Faramir’s prepared lower entrance. As the Elf eased forward, his brother sucked at the head of Faramir’s shaft, and Faramir cried out, in pain or pleasure, or some wild blend of both. He held himself open, mind, body and soul, accepting the caresses of his lovers without fear or reservation. Having surrendered to his desires, he kept nothing back. Though he had never taken another man’s sword into his sheath, he welcomed it and all the attendant sensations. His fingers burrowed into Elladan’s unraveling braids as the Elf used hands and mouth to keep him blissful and hard while the rod of flesh sank into him. “Ahhh,” Elrohir sighed. “How can I show my gratitude for this gift of pleasure?”

“I imagine,” Faramir said in a strained voice. “I imagine that you would want to repay me in kind. I am a novice, but that seems…” Faramir’s voice deteriorated into a drawn out moan as Elrohir pulled slowly out of him. The moan rose to a whimper as Elrohir shifted his balance, cocking one hip forward and sliding a handspan into the tight passage. Elladan licked his way around Faramir’s arousal, rubbing gently at the fragile skin of his sack, as Elrohir withdrew once more. And again, the Elvish warrior thrust, slow and shallow, seeking the human’s pleasure as he plumbed his own. “Ah, sweet, so sweet,” Faramir breathed and Elladan’s gaze flicked up to meet his brother’s. Elrohir nodded and lifted his eyes to the Man.

Faramir reclined against satin brocade of a green like the shadows of leaves, his red gold hair fanned out across the cushions like the streamers of sunset. Elladan knelt beside the couch on his discarded clothing, unbound hair tumbling down the slopes of his back and shoulders like spilled ink on an ivory carving. The Elf enveloped the mortal’s hard length, full lips sliding down the rosy column to the base, evoking a hiss of appreciation. Elrohir gave a soft cry and paused in his delicate stroke as the velvet sheath clamped down on his shaft. Lifting Faramir’s leg, he kissed his way from the Man’s slender ankle to the silky skin behind his knee before letting the Man’s calf rest on his shoulder. Faramir smiled up at Elrohir in complete trust as the Elf pinned the man’s other knee to the back of the couch. Elrohir smiled back, as he rolled his hips, rubbing the blunt head of his arousal across the Man’s most sensitive flesh. Faramir’s chatoyant eyes were veiled in gold as his eyelids drew down. His mouth hung softly open on a bated breath as the Elf rocked into him like the surf meeting the shore. The fire in him grew with each stroke until he was panting in the heat that flowed through his veins like lava.

Elladan raised his head and ran his tongue over his lips. “I taste your joy,” he told Faramir, as he fondled the Man’s pulsing length.

“It is… even more than I had… dreamed,” Faramir managed to say, as more nectar welled from the tip of his shaft. Ellandan bent his elegant neck again and lapped at the cloudy fluid in rapid, fluttering strokes of his tongue as he squeezed the resilient rod. Faramir lifted his buttocks, trying to push farther into the tantalizing mouth, lost to everything but the need for more. Elrohir moaned his approval as Faramir tried to thrust, and reached down to cup his cheeks, kneading the firm flesh as he offered support. Faramir untangled his hand from Elladan’s hair and groped downward until he reached the juncture of the Elf’s thighs. He took hold of the neglected shaft, thumbing the tip, spreading the slick, opalescent fluid that seeped out, and made use of the skills he’d learned in many hours of solitary practice. Elladan hummed his pleasure around the head of Faramir’s arousal as he sucked ardently. Elrohir tilted the Man’s pelvis to a new angle and increased the speed of his stroke, plunging deeper, sending jolts of bliss up Faramir’s spine on each pass. “I cannot bear anymore,” he breathed. “Finish me; I beg you.”

“He sues for mercy, brother,” Elrohir said.

Elladan replied with a silent but eloquent tongue coaxing the mortal to greater heights before Elrohir pushed him over the edge with a well-timed thrust that Faramir met halfway. The young Man shuddered in the throes of his release as his shaft jerked and spurted a powerful stream that was eagerly swallowed down. The muscles of his belly clenched and his arousal twitched again, dribbling forth another load as Elrohir continued to rock him gently against the cushions. Shivering in reaction to the orgasm that still reverberated in his every cell, Faramir relaxed and began to move his hand on Elladan’s shaft to the tempo of Elrohir’s stroke. Elladan’s white teeth sank into his lower lip as Faramir tugged on his length, urging him to stand. When the Man’s mouth replaced his hand, Elladan’s knees almost betrayed him. Lovingly, he palmed this sweet mortal’s dragon-gold hair and gave thanks to the Valar for gifting him with senses to perceive what he was given. He turned to share this joy with his brother and was swept up. The dark fire in Elrohir’s eyes kindled an answering blaze in his twin. “Faramir,” Elladan said softly. “Do you still wish for wildness?”

Faramir nodded, his teeth scraping lightly against the underside of Elladan’s rod as he bobbed his head in eager acquiescence. The word being given, the sons of Elrond loosed all restraint, flying fierce and free into the deep

:: : :: : :: : :: : ::

“I have seen you naked many times,” Aragorn said. “And yet it is somehow different now.”

Legolas lifted his chin and held his arms out from his sides, letting the Heir look his fill. “It is only a shell of flesh,” the Sindar said.

“Well, I find it beautiful, so beautiful that I feel unworthy to touch you.”

The Elf put a hand on Aragorn’s shoulder, pushing aside the wide neck of the bedgown. As he looked into the young Man’s yearning gaze, his thumb rubbed small circles on the sweet clavicle bones. “There can be no talk of worth between us,” he said softly. “We have seen one another’s weaknesses and not shied away. I accept you as you accept me for the spirit within this crude matter, pure and free of taint. We share a bond that will never be broken. Do you believe this?”

“But you were tricked into the bond.”

“I tell you truly that even were the ring to be cut from my finger and the ancient spell revoked, still I would stand at your side.”

“Why?” Aragorn asked, his voice deepening as the Elf’s fingers worked their rough magic. “You owe no loyalty to Gondor’s royal house. You are royal yourself; twice royal, I know your lineage and it far higher and more ancient than mine. Why would you give your allegiance to Isildur’s Heir if you were not compelled?”

“For love of him,” the Elf said.

Aragorn’s eyebrows lifted in silent inquiry. Legolas nodded solemnly, his hand coming up to cup the Man’s jaw. “You are the mate of my soul. I can not doubt it now and of all the ways we might spend this battle’s eve, I would choose to pass it in your arms.”

With a trembling hand, Aragorn brushed aside the bright curtain of the Vigil’s hair and laid his palm against the smooth cheek. “You are certain you are not doing this out of duty; that it is not some ill-conceived notion to give me confidence for the morrow?”

“Am I a liar?”

“Assuredly not,” Aragorn’s lips curved in a smile.

“Do you know what you want, Aragorn?”

“Yes.”

“Would you risk all to have it?”

“I would.”

“Then take it for it is yours already.”

Aragorn saw that it was as the Elf said. What he wanted could be his if he would but stretch out his hand and claim it. Why was it so hard to take what he needed? The most beautiful creature of this age stood before him offering all that he had ever dreamed of when he had dared dream of such things. This moment had the lightning bright aura of high destiny and he knew that whatever he did next would affect the rest of his life. And because he would rule, his decision would affect many now alive and even those yet unborn. Did he obey the Steward and sacrifice his happiness for the good of his kingdom, or did he listen to his heart and bind himself to Legolas with vows of love?

The Vigil did not speak to sway the Heir. He stood in patient silence, as naked as he came into the world so many years before Aragorn was born to grace it. Though no words passed his lips, the longing in his eyes and the hard column of flesh that curved out below his belly spoke of the Elf’s desire. And something as intangible as the scent of the Sindar’s hair whispered to Aragorn that this was the one that would make him whole. If he turned away the other half of his soul, he would never be complete and he would spend his days in endless bitter regret. Was that the kind of King the people of Gondor deserved?

“I will be happy,” Aragorn chose, as he touched his lips to the Vigil’s. Now that his decision was made for good or ill, Aragorn did not hesitate. With the self-confidence of one that knows he is loved and his attention welcomed, he leaned in for a kiss, wrapping the pale Prince’s supple body in his arms, molding their contours to a perfect fit. Deeply his tongue delved the warm wet chamber of Legolas’s mouth until the Elf joined the slippery duel, igniting a fire in the Heir’s groin that could not be controlled. He did not stop to consider that the Vigil could subdue him easily, as he lowered the Elf to the bed on his back. All he knew was that this one was his and he would have him.

“Yes,” Legolas whispered fiercely as the Heir’s eyes glowed blue sliver as wraith-fire. “Take me, Aragorn.”

Aragorn crouched over the Vigil, a knee on either side of the slim hips as he dipped his head to once again taste the nectar of the Elf’s mouth. Legolas grasped a fistful of leaf brown hair and sealed their lips more firmly as tongues foretold what their arousals would do, thrusting and sliding over one another in a way that nearly caused Aragorn to spurt untimely. With the fine control the Steward had ingrained in him, Aragorn reined in his runaway lust. This was his dearest fantasy; he should not rush through it like a man through a burning forest even if he was catching fire.

“What is amiss?” the Vigil asked, propping himself in a reclining position so that he was nearly eye-to-eye with Aragorn.

“All is as I would wish it,” the Heir said. “But I want to savor each moment of the first time we join.”

“It is the first time you will take me,” the Elf said. “But we have shared joy once before. Do you not remember?”

“That was a dream.”

“A very good dream. You gave yourself so sweetly.”

“Do you mean to say it was real?”

Legolas stroked the Man’s hair. “Through the bond, we may cross into one another’s dreams, though we may not always choose the time.”

“I thought I dreamt it because I wished for it so much. Why did you come to me then, and why did you never speak of it?”

“You needed to know that you came before Castimir in my regard, that I would always choose you over him. And once it was done what need was there to speak of it? You believed it to be a dream, and I deemed it better so.”

“Strange are the ways of the Elves,” Aragorn said in fond exasperation.

“Enough of your clever tongue. If you keep talking, it will be dawn ere I am satisfied.”

Aragorn leaned in and touched his lips to the Elf’s petal soft cheek. He repeated the gesture on the other side before kissing each of Legolas’s eyelids, his forehead and the end of his nose. He took the Elf’s mouth briefly, in a hummingbird kiss, and resumed his journey downward. As he kissed his way along the elegant curve of the Vigil’s throat, his tongue flicked out to tease the silken skin. Legolas moaned softly, rising under his hands, seeking to be closer as Aragorn’s teeth grazed a sensitive nub of flesh. The Heir was nothing if not a quick study. Taking the nipple between his teeth, he held it fast as he dragged his tongue slowly over the tip. The Elf arched his back even farther, wrapping an arm around Aragorn’s neck as the Man teased him. “Have you had enough of my clever tongue now?” Aragorn asked as he lifted his head to strip off his bed gown.

“Not by half,” the Vigil answered, exerting his strength to bring Aragorn’s mouth to his other nipple. Taking hold of the Heir’s hips, Legolas lifted his pelvis, pressing their groins together, aligning his arousal with Aragorn’s. Aragorn made a muffled sound of surprise against the Elf’s smooth chest as their cocks rubbed against each other. Getting the idea immediately, the Man flexed his buttocks, rolling his hard flesh over the Vigil’s. Legolas opened his legs wider, bending his knees to get the soles of his feet against the mattress. Aragorn threw his head back with a deep groan as a sweet bolt of bliss speared his groin. Eagerly, he ground against the solid resistance provided by the Elf, dragging his burning length up and down Legolas’s oak hard shaft. Friction worked its reliable magic, and the smolder became a blaze that set both alight, Man and Elf, with the same kindling, and the same flame, and each saw that they were not so dissimilar after all. Though they came of different Races, their hearts burned with the same desires, and craved the same companionship. The yearning of a soul for its mate recognized no boundaries.

“Do you feel it?” Aragorn asked breathlessly as he relinquished the Elf’s mouth.

“Aye, my own. It fills me with pure joy. Now I know why I never chose one of Elfkind to bind myself to; I was waiting for you. Can you doubt that this was meant to be?”

Aragorn shook his head, tangled locks swaying against flushed cheeks. “And I will not let anything part us: not duty, nor war, nor death itself.”

“Then join with me now and let us be one flesh as we are one spirit.”

The Man’s rod pulsed eagerly at these words. “I am willing; let me fetch…”

“Nay,” Legolas protested, holding Aragorn captive in a cage of arms of legs. “I do not wish to be parted from you for even a moment. Spit will do, my own.”

Self-consciously, Aragorn spat in his palm and slicked the head of his scepter. The saliva mixed with the dribble of cloudy fluid that seeped from the tip, and the Heir hoped it would be enough to spare the Elf any pain. As he took himself in hand, Legolas rolled up on one shoulder and grabbed the opposite knee, pulling his leg back and presenting himself for penetration. Aragorn blinked away the moisture that gathered suddenly as he gazed on his heart’s desire proffered for his pleasure. “With all my love,” he murmured as he applied pressure and breached the resilient ring of muscle.

“Look at me,” Legolas said, catching the Man’s eyes and holding them as Aragorn entered him slowly, but inexorably. The link between them was so strong at this moment that the Heir was certain he could hear the Elf’s thoughts, feel the emotions that surged through him, that he could intuit Legolas’s desires through his skin. Taking hold of the Vigil’s arousal, Aragorn pumped it until he found the rhythm that best pleased the Elf. The gaze that was wont to be as hard and bright as the gems on the hilt of a sword was melting in the forge of passion. Mesmerized, Aragorn watched the Vigil’s eyes open wide, shimmering in a hot, wet look of unbridled need as a shiver ran the length of the Elf’s lithe frame. Pausing in his backstroke, the Heir eased forward again and was rewarded by moan that rose to his partner’s lips. Thrusting with a barely perceptible roll of his hips, Aragorn strove to repeat the movements that made Legolas gasp and groan with pleasure. With their gazes fused like glass in a furnace, they rocked against one another, giving and receiving in the same act of generous greed. They were equals, perfectly balanced, two halves of a whole that embodied no less than light and dark, encompassing the heavens and the earth, eternal and ephemeral, entwined in patterns so complex and tightly woven that they could never be unraveled. This realization rolled through them as their pleasure peaked in a long suspended moment of ecstasy that stood outside time. Breath frozen in their throats, between one heartbeat and the next, Elf and Man, Vigil and Heir, Warrior and Scholar merged for one glorious moment before snapping back into their separate existences, falling into a warm sea of afterglow, floating in one another’s arms, content and complete. “My heart, my life, my fate,” Legolas breathed in Sindarin. “Now our bond is sealed.”

Aragorn let his forehead rest against the Elf’s, as he finger combed the tangles from the skeins of pale silk tumbled on the pillow. This was no dream; he could feel the Vigil’s breath warm on his lips and he closed the small gap in a gentle kiss. The tip of Legolas’s tongue flirted with his and his sated manhood twitched in the velvet sheath. Outside the door of the royal bedchamber, Romen’s witch-senses reported the Gondorian kinglet’s renewed ardor, and Romen smiled beneath the scarf that covered the lower half of his face. The guard at the end of the hall, assuming him to be Castimir, had not questioned his presence here, but waved him into the Heir’s quarters with a small smirk. The Umbaran had felt the unmistakable surge of energy as two matched souls shared joy, and even now, he could feel the echo of it as though a great golden bell had tolled out glad tidings. He was too late to continue Castimir’s tactics of keeping Elf and Heir apart; they had joined now and felt the potential for power in their union. The King of Umbar stepped away from the door and went back down the hall. Among the interesting facts he’d learned when he’d snuffed out the flame of his brother’s spirit was the name of an unexpected co-conspirator. Or maybe not so unexpected, Romen thought, as he went in search of the man.

In the royal bed, Aragorn was licking his way down the Elf’s back to the alluring rise of his dimpled buttocks. Legolas lay on his stomach, propped on his elbows to better lavish the attention of his mouth on the Heir’s staff as Aragorn crouched over him. The Man’s tongue dipped into the sweet cleft between the firm cheeks and Legolas wriggled, rubbing his shaft against the linen sheets. The Vigil was poised to take the hard length in his mouth, his lips just touching the tip, when the euphoria was shattered by a piercing note that rose like the challenge of an eagle. Legolas’s head came up like a hound that hears the huntsman’s whistle and Aragorn straightened up, turning toward the window.

::x::

Elladan and Elrohir lay on either side of Faramir on a cream-colored pelt, lazily caressing the Man. Faramir had a hard shaft in either hand, shuttling his fingers up and down at a languid pace. All three sat up suddenly as the winding call broke open the night.

::x::

Boromir widened his stance and thrust up into the snuggest harbor he’d ever berthed in. Arwen wrapped her legs more tightly around the Man’s waist, and her arms around his neck as he took her against the wall. He had already pleasured her twice, and was about to take her over the edge again when the air was shivered by the call of a battle horn.

::x::

Denethor paused on his way to answer a knock at his door and stood frozen as the strange call to arms hung quivering in the dark. “And so the end begins,” he said bitterly.


	19. baileymoyes — LiveJournal

Part Nineteen of an LotR A/U  
Please see chapter one for synopis.  
Pairing: Aragorn/Legolas  
Rated: PG13  
Disclaimer: I borrow these characters from J.R.R. Tolkien with love and respect.  
Thank you, Jean.  
A/N: My apologies for the slow updates to anyone still reading this story.  
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::  


“But my lord,” Romen said silkily. “Do you really not know me?”

Denethor glared at the former fancy-boy. “I do not have time for your lovesick foolishness just now,” he said. “Do you not hear the alarms?”

“There is naught amiss with my ears,” the Umbaran smirked. “It is your perceptions that are brought in question.” Denethor started to sweep past the slender figure and found himself frozen in mid-stride. The boy moved to face the Steward, a sneer marring the sweet curves of his sculpted lips. Holding an amulet before Denethor’s eyes, the Umbaran spoke again. “You may speak to answer me,” he said, accompanying the words with a fluid gesture. “I would show you more respect, but… I do not really respect you. It is true that you are a powerful man and a shrewd one, but you make the mistake of believing you are cleverer than any other. You made a secret bargain with your enemy to serve your ends never doubting you could keep it hidden. But there was at least one who knew: the one with whom you negotiated, the Corsair King. I cannot say that I am pleased to meet you face to face, but I do feel a certain amount of satisfaction. Yes? You wish to speak?”

Denethor was in fact bursting with the need to release the words that were boiling over in his brain. However, when permission was granted with the lifting of one of Romen’s delicate fingers, the Steward could only manage to choke out a short incredulous exclamation. “You! You are the Corsair King?”

“No, of course not. The Corsair King is dead. Do I appear as a ghost to you? That was a rhetorical question, by the way,” Romen said, as Denethor’s mouth opened automatically to answer. “This spell of compulsion is somewhat tricky, but I digress. The name bestowed on me at birth is long and though it has a certain musical quality, I haven’t the time to recite it just now. You may call me Romen, or Your Majesty, if you prefer to be more formal. I apologize for not following the protocol for a state visit, but this is a siege after all.”

“You are Umbar’s King,” came grinding from between Denethor’s clenched teeth.

“Ah, that vaunted cleverness comes into play,” the pretty young man said archly. “I am the King of Umbar, and brother to the Corsair King, or should I say, your partner? You look confused. Allow me to explain further as we walk.” Romen made another arcane gesture and took Denethor’s arm. “If you would be so good as to lead the way to the secret passage, we can be gone.”

Against his will, the Steward brought them, step by dragging step, to the entrance hidden behind the arras and into the tunnel beyond. Romen’s amulet emitted a red glow that reflected eerily from the walls of the narrow corridor, providing enough light to see a few feet ahead. The Umbaran resumed speaking, his dulcet voice weaving through the hard, hollow sound of their boots on the stone. “My family is… complicated. In Umbar, a man may have as many wives as he can support, and my father being a king could support quite a large number. And I am speaking only of wives; father had quite a large harem as well. In Umbar, it is the sire’s decision to legitimize his get; it is not conferred simply because the parents are wed. Thus it was that my younger brother Namir, gotten on a pleasure slave, was able to take a place in the line for the throne, and that my elder brother Castamir, gotten on a royal wife, was left out of the succession. As you may well imagine, this tradition has led to some bitter and bloody civil wars. Within my reign, I have managed to keep a precarious peace by making Namir my champion, and allowing Castamir to raid the coastline as the Corsair King. Then you had your clever idea to make a pact with the pirate for reasons I can only assume have to do with retaining control of Gondor’s throne. You upset the balance, Steward, and now our nations are at war. I had to leave my palace and risk exposing the masquerade I have orchestrated with such painstaking care. It is cold in Gondor, Steward. I don’t like the cold; it requires the wearing of too much clothing. I tell you this so you may understand the peevish mood I was in when I found Castamir and destroyed him.” Romen felt the tremor that ran through Denethor’s frame. “Oh dear, did you just now realize? Indeed, Castamir the Umbaran slave boy, and Castamir the Corsair King are one and the same. Or rather, they were. I killed him, and, thanks to an uncanny resemblance, I was able to take his place. I am quite certain that there is all manner of mischief I may do so close to the bosom of Gondor’s royal family, but first, I will be rid of you.” The corridor ended, and Romen looked up at the Steward, his almond eyes shimmering crimson in the sorcerous light of the amulet. “Which way to the harbor, my lord?”

Denethor strove with all his considerable will to defy the compulsion to answer, but in the end, he turned to the left and resumed walking. “If it means aught to you, you have remarkable resistance to the power of the spell. Most men would have obeyed instantly. Your elder son did not hold out so long, but of course, he was drugged, so it is not a fair comparison. I look forward to testing your younger son; he escaped me once, but shall not do so again. I shall see to it that your seed is wiped from this Middle Earth for… ah, that touches you, does it?” Romen gave a light laugh. “It is no more than your due, traitor. You sold your queen into captivity to gain political advantage. Now, share her fate.”

When they reached the secret river gate, a small rowboat was waiting with two Umbaran sailors at the oars and a soldier with his sword in hand standing guard. The red and black garbed warrior bowed when he saw Romen. “What is your will, my sovereign?”

Romen shoved the Denethor toward the boat. “Take this prisoner to Captain Nargo. He is to be kept bound and gagged until he reaches the slave markets of the Corsairs Isle. If he causes any trouble, beat him.”

“It shall be as you will it,” the soldier bowed again and manhandled Denethor into the boat. “Is there more I may do for you, Your Glory?”

Romen closed the amulet in his fist and spoke a few guttural words. Denethor felt the compulsion spell fall away from him like a fishing net and immediately began to struggle. The Umbaran soldier dispassionately reversed his sword and brought the heavy pommel down on the back of the Steward’s gray head. Denethor sagged, and the sailors dragged him back down, binding his hands and feet. The Gondorian bellowed threats until he was gagged and thrown face down in the bottom of the boat with the warrior’s boot between his shoulder blades. With a salute, the soldier bade the boatmen to put their oars to the water. Romen waved to the seething Steward as the boat pulled away from the hidden quay.

“I would say farewell, but I fear you shall not fare well,” he called softly, and turned to make the long climb back up.  
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Aragorn leaned over the wall, watching as the bright assemblage fought their way through the enemy lines in a shining wedge of moon white chargers and warriors in mail that shimmered like silver scales. “Elves,” he breathed, as the sally port opened and a band of Gondorian knights charged forth in single file. The Heir recognized the trim figure at their head and smiled proudly. “Ride on, Faramir, my brave one,” he murmured, and none but the Vigil heard, but it seemed that the lead rider far below lifted his head proudly and glanced up at the walls ere he couched his spear. To his left and right, the sons of Elrond took up wing positions with the express intention of killing anything that came near the Man. In a thundering wave of pounding hooves, the knights met up with the Elven warriors and together they cut a path to the main gate. Defenders from the City swarmed out to hold off the Umbarans as the relief force squeezed through the gap of the partially open gate.

“Thank the Valar,” Aragorn as the great hinges swung closed with a hollow booming. “But who are they, Legolas? Rivendell and Lothlorien have already sent aid, and you tell me that Mirkwood will not, so who are these warriors?”

“They are from Mirkwood,” Legolas said, his voice curiously flat. “The armored warriors are the King’s personal guard and those in leather are Trackers. I do not understand.”

“Shall we greet them?” Aragorn’s excitement broke the Vigil’s distraction.

The Sindar gazed on the Man, noting Aragorn’s customary enthusiasm for all things Elvish. He fought the insidious encroachment of tender feelings for this mortal though he knew his struggle was futile. The Vigil had no defenses against the Isildur’s Heir; the oath bond had seen to that, but Legolas knew that even if the ring were stripped from his finger and the magic reversed, he would still cleave to the future King of Gondor. Sometime in the last hour, he had fallen in love with Aragorn, or, more likely, had realized the nature of his feelings, and that it had nothing to do with his oath. “As you wish, Aragorn,” he said.

Aragorn looked up at the sound of his name on the Vigil’s lips. Bolts of erotic energy shot from the top of his spine to his groin and back again. With difficulty, he managed to get a grip on his rampant urges. Wondering if the Elf could see his unruly desires in his gaze, or scent them on his skin, Aragorn ducked his head. Legolas lifted the Man’s chin on his fingers and shook his head. “You are of the bloodline of Elendil,” he said. “You should never lower your head to another.”

“I am embarrassed,” Aragorn admitted.

“Why?”

“I cannot control my need for you.”

“Ah, I see. Well, you are a young Man and only recently initiated into the pleasures of the flesh. It is no wonder if you wish to couple often,” Legolas paused. “I like the way your skin turns the color of sunset sometimes.”

Aragorn trembled at the Vigil’s touch. “You cause such turmoil inside me,” he whispered.

“Then let us go and see what Mirkwood has sent us, and when we have dispatched duty, perhaps we may steal a few moments alone.”

Aragorn nodded, body still resonating with his first real sexual experience, feeling as tall as the White Tree and vibrating with power. He had never felt more alive as a laugh bubbled up in his throat. “Yes, let us go before the Steward greets them and they turn and march away back home.” The Vigil’s lips curved in a smile and Aragorn felt as proud as if he’d already broken this siege single-handedly. Flushed with pride and sated with pleasure, Aragorn strode away, and the Vigil followed as closely as the Heir’s shadow. The Elf did not regret bedding his charge, but he could see that it was not going to be easy to hide the change in their union and did not look forward to the inevitable confrontation with the Steward. Denethor was not likely to approve the match.  
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Haldir bowed his beautiful head, and offered his sword to Isildur’s Heir. “Please accept this blade in defense of your people,” the Marchwarden said in his melodious baritone.

Aragorn inclined his head. “Gondor is grateful to the Woodland Realm,” he intoned. “Be welcome to our City.”

“Hannon le,” Haldir said as he sheathed his sword. His gaze went beyond Aragorn and focused on Legolas. “Prince,” he bowed again. “I have a private message from your Sire when you have leisure to hear it.”

Aragorn fancied he felt a chill at his back as the Vigil answered in Sindarin. “My leisure is at the pleasure of my ward,” Legolas said.

“Of course,” Haldir said, looking to Aragorn. “Your Highness, we are at your disposal.”

Aragorn looked around in mild confusion. “Where is Denethor?” he wondered.

“I have not seen my father here,” Faramir said from the back of his charger. “It is strange that he would not be here.”

“Strange indeed,” Legolas’s eyes narrowed. “Something is amiss.”

Aragorn straightened his shoulders and addressed Faramir. “Please see to the quartering of these brave Elves that have come to our defense,” he said. “Please forgive my discourtesy, Haldir, but I have urgent business elsewhere.”

Haldir bowed again with consummate grace and looked to Faramir. The Twain eyed the elegant Marchwarden over Faramir’s shoulders and Elladan leaned forward to make to speak in Faramir’s ear. “They will be more comfortable in a place where they may pitch their tents and pavilions,” he said. Faramir nodded and signed to Haldir to follow.  
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“My Lady,” Romen murmured, running a finger along the curve of Gilraen’s cheek. “Enjoy your carefree dreams. This palace will not be a pleasant place to wake to. Keep your eyes closed and you will not see the destruction of this city and the death of your son. Slumber on, sweet queen, and I shall come to visit you again.” The sorcerer-king withdrew completely from the unseen realm of Gilraen’s dreams and slumped wearily. He was brought back upright a moment later by the sound of someone entering the chamber.

“What are you doing there?” Boromir demanded to know as he came swiftly across the room.

The slight Umbaran gazed up at the Gondorian Knight in bloodstained armor. “I am tending the lady, lord,” he said humbly.

“If you would ply your healing skills, go the infirmary. There are many wounded.”

Romen inclined his head. “As you will it,” he said, moving around the warrior like smoke around a tree trunk.

Boromir’s gloved hand shot out, gripping the other man by the biceps. “I am a plain-spoken Man,” he said. “Do not think that because Aragorn feels sorry for you, or because that Sindar assassin likes the shape of your backside that I have any liking for you. I do not trust you and I do not believe in your meek and maidenish manners. It would please me greatly if I never beheld you again.”

“You are very honest, lord,” Romen said softly, looking up from his lashes. He could feel the thrumming vibration of the Man’s great muscles and knew the warrior held himself under tight control. It was plain that one of the Galadrim had wiped most of the arcane controls from the Gondorian’s mind, but some of them remained, keeping the warrior from recalling what had happened to him in the dungeon of the Umbaran palace. Boromir had just enough vestiges of memory to be disturbed by Romen’s presence, even if he didn’t remember that he had been tortured at Romen’s behest. Cautiously, the sorcerer-king stretched forth a wispy tendril of his will and the Man’s grip on him relaxed. “May I go about my duties now?”

Boromir shook his head as though plagued by a fly. “What? Yes, go!” he said, pushing Romen toward the door, before calling him back in vexation. “Wait! You have made me forget my purpose. Have you seen my father?”

“Assuredly, I have not, lord.”

Boromir signed dismissal and Romen left, keeping his eyes on the marble floor. The Umbaran’s task here was finished. It was time to find Castamir’s patron and teach him the folly of taking in strays.  
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Aragorn turned as they reached the landing and pulled Legolas into his arms. Pivoting on his heel, he put the Elf’s back to the wall and stole a kiss. The Vigil returned the caress with kindling ardor, spinning so that the Heir was against the wall, burying his fingers in the autumn colored hair. Aragorn let his hands slide down the Elf’s back to rest on the top curve of the round buttocks as the kiss continued, neither willing to break contact until the scrape of a boot on the steps above them drove them apart. Boromir hove into view, stopping when he saw the Heir and the Vigil mid way down the stair. A frown of suspicion creased his handsome face as he addressed them.

“My father is not in the Houses of Healing and no guard between here and there has seen him,” the Captain said.

“I fear for him, Bo,” Aragorn said. “It is not like him to absent himself. He is always at the service of the Crown, day or night.”

Boromir nodded. “That is my thought also.”

“We will return to the Council Chamber,” Aragorn said decisively. “Perhaps one of the searchers will have word by now.”

“If I may be excused,” Boromir said. “It would ease my mind if I could continue to search.”

Aragorn nodded permission. “Of course. I wish you luck.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Boromir bowed to the new air of command his liege exuded.

“Boromir,” Aragorn said, and the big man paused on his way down the steps. “You are bleeding.”

Boromir nodded. “A minor wound: nothing to trouble the Healers with, and besides,” he smiled. “I hope to stir my lady’s sympathy with it.”

Legolas made an indelicate sound that brought Aragorn’s head around. “Arwen is not the sort to coo over a sword cut,” the Elf said.

“I think the brave lass has a soft spot for me,” Boromir grinned over his shoulder as he rounded the corner and was lost to sight.

“Are we to have another Beren and Luthien?” Aragorn mused.

Legolas cocked a winged brow. “Perhaps it would be better if the Steward were never found,” he said.

Aragorn’s eyes widened, and then he laughed, a sound to gladden a Vigil’s heart. “You are a most improper Elf,” he said. “Let us go to the Council Chamber and thence to the camp of the Mirkwood Elves. I have such a burning curiosity to see more of your folk.”

“The leader is not of my father’s kingdom,” Legolas said as they walked. “He is a Marchwarden of Lothlorien.”

“Well, he is most impressive,” the Heir opined.

“Indeed. I was most surprised by the efficiency with which he laid about him during the charge, and his command of the troops. It seems he is more than a comely face and a good fit for the armor. And it will be good to have a troop of Mirkwood archers on the wall.” On the last word, they reached the top of the stair, and Aragorn turned to the Vigil.

“Melethron,” he murmured, putting a hand to the Elf’s cheek as though to absorb the profligate beauty through his palm as well as his eyes. The shift of Legolas’s gaze over his shoulder warned him, and he dropped his hand to his side as he turned. “Castamir,” he said, a trifle guiltily. “How fares my mother?”

“There is no change, great lord,” Romen answered and the Vigil looked at him sharply. There was something different about the Umbaran: a slight rasp to the timbre of his voice, a subtle variation in the black of his hair, or perhaps a new note in the unique scent that rose from the easterner’s pores. When Aragorn had dismissed the boy to get some rest, Legolas remarked on the change.

“Do you wonder at it?” Aragorn was surprised. “Surely, he can sense what had passed between is. I feel it must be writ on my forehead for all to read. Here is the mortal that dared ask for the love of a creature so perfect…”

“I am not perfect,” Legolas interrupted.

“I was jesting, though you are nearer perfection than anything these eyes have beheld.”

“I could say the same of you, would you believe me?”

“Of course not, but…”

“No more talk of perfection,” the Elf said. “You are as wondrous to me as I am to you. Let that be an end to it.”

“How did I live before you came to Minas Tirith?” Aragorn wondered.

“Day to day, doing what you thought best,” the Vigil answered literally, and then thrilled Aragorn to his core with the next words. “I wish you would call me melethron again when we are alone, and I wish it might be sooner than later.”

“That is my wish also. And I just thought, I am a descendant of Beren, and Arwen is a descendant of Luthien Tinuviel. Would it not have been a strange fate if she and I had fallen in love?”

“As strange as ours?”

“I think only time will answer that riddle,” Aragorn sighed and Legolas felt the brush of the wings of destiny. A sudden chill pervaded his spirit and the torches seemed to dim. In the fey half-light, the Heir seemed like a statue of a long dead hero from the Second Age. Without warning, the Elf pulled his charge into a fierce embrace before letting him go. Aragorn didn’t ask why; he touched his forehead briefly to the Vigil’s, and led the way down the hall.

tbc


	20. The Vigil:: baileymoyes — LiveJournal

Part Twenty  
Please see chapter one for synopsis.  
Pairing: Aragorn/Legolas  
Rated: PG13  
Disclaimer: I borrow these characters from J.R.R. Tolkien with love and respect.  
Thank you, Jean.  
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“Well, Faramir,” Aragorn said, as he came into the courtyard. “It seems you are a more than adequate deputy for your sire.”  As Faramir bowed, Aragorn looked around at those the young Man had assembled. “My friends, I hope you do not mind meeting out of doors. The Council Chamber seems too large without Gondor’s Steward.”

“I thank you for choosing this location,” Arwen, daughter of Elrond spoke out. “Far better to speak in the light of Anor while breathing free air.”

“For as long as it remains free,” Boromir muttered.

“Heir of Isildur,” Haldir said, as he stepped forward, clad in chiming mail. “I too thank you for your hospitality.”

“It is you and your brethren that deserve my thanks,” Aragorn said. “Your arrows have thinned the ranks of our besiegers. I know you have not had opportunity to speak with Prince Legolas privately, but I give my word that you shall have it when this council is ended. And now to the most pressing matter: Denethor is not to be found within the walls or grounds of the palace, nor anywhere he is wont to dwell. The search continues, but I fear that some plan of the enemy must account for his disappearance. However, we cannot stand still with Umbar at our gates. May I have your thoughts on this?”

Legolas stood proudly behind the young ruler who did not issue orders to his councilors, but appealed to them for their advice. And such a council few kings had stood before. This was no gathering of graybeards, though older, wiser heads were represented. Nor was it a roomful of generals, each bent on battle and sure his strategy was best. Aragorn’s council was a disparate collection of Elves and Men that saw the situation from widely diverging perspectives. Together, the Heir hoped that they could build an accurate enough view of this war to find an end to it. Each member was given a say, and each opinion carried equal weight, whether the speaker was a captain, a princess, or a philosopher. At times, the debate was interrupted by the sound of a sorcerous explosion from the riverbanks, but Mirkwood archers on the walls taught the black-robed Umbarans to respect their range. When the meeting was over, leaders strode away to implement new strategies, leaving a small group around the Heir.

“You are our King in all but name,” Faramir said. “Though you wear no crown, you are my liege, and I await your command.”

“As do I,” Boromir moved to stand at his brother’s side.

“And I with him,” Arwen saluted Aragorn with the upraised fist of a warrior.

Silently, Elladan and Elrohir flanked Faramir, as Haldir came forward also. At Aragorn’s shoulder stood the Vigil and behind him were six of the Guards of the White Tree, their mithril helmets glittering in the sunlight. The pennants snapped overhead in the wind that always blew on these heights, streaming out like the long hair of the Elves, and Aragorn thought what a fine, brave show they made, like something out of the ancient sagas he used to spend hours reading. And now that he came to think of it, the heroes and heroines in those tales had no doubt stood as he did now, uncertain of the outcome, but willing to fight for what they loved. It was at once a disillusioning and a bracing thought. Perhaps one day another young Man would face an enemy and remember how Aragorn of Gondor acquitted himself. If so, it would be better if Aragorn did not fail.

“Why do you smile, my liege?” Faramir asked.

“He just realized some truth about life,” was Boromir’s opinion. “You do not remember that look, little brother?”

“It has been some little while since we were carefree scholars,” Faramir answered.

“And never carefree,” Aragorn said. “I go now to my lady mother for her blessing. Those who wish may come with me. Legolas,” the Heir lowered his voice. “If you wish to tarry and speak with Haldir…”

“There will be time for fond messages when we have driven the enemy into the river,” the Vigil said.

“My message is not urgent to the war, Prince,” Haldir inclined his head. “Merely of a personal nature. If you wish to wait, I am at your service.”

Aragorn’s instincts engendered a vague uneasiness, but he led the way to the royal wing of the Houses of Healing. Faramir and the Peredhil left to assemble a company of knights, but Arwen wished to see the Queen and Boromir would not leave her. Legolas and Haldir stood just inside the door of Gilraen’s chamber as the others crossed to the bed. The Umbaran boy stood as they approached, his scarf obscuring the lower half of his down-turned face.

“I do not suppose there is any change?” Aragorn asked softly.

Romen shook his head, speaking as little as possible around the Vigil. These Elves had eyes and ears and even noses sharper than any Mordor-spawned demon. The Umbaran sovereign had hoped to slip into Minas Tirith, take out some key players, and leave a mystery behind. Alas, it seemed it would not be so for doubtless he would not have a better opportunity than this. He wished the Elves were farther away, but it was Boromir’s proximity that mattered. Putting this plan into motion meant revealing himself, but it could not be helped. Romen gave Aragorn room to kneel beside the bed, brushing against Boromir as he stepped back. Enduring the Captain’s black look, the Umbaran moved a discreet distance away. As Aragorn took the Queen’s hand between his, and Arwen leaned closer to the sleeper, the sorcerer-king tried to activate the deep-seated controls he had planted in Boromir’s mind. As he had noted before, some Elvish healer had released the Man’s spirit from its dark bindings, but that Elf had been over-confident. Down in the deepest red-black depths where the most primal emotions held sway, Romen found what he sought.

‘It should be you,’ the sorcerer said silently. ‘You are more fit to rule Gondor than a weak scholar. It should be you. Take the throne. Kill him now.’

Boromir shook his shaggy head irritably, as though plagued by some buzzing insect. His gaze slid sideways and down until it rested on the Heir. The captain noted how close was Aragorn to she whom Boromir loved with all his being. The deeply buried resentments that would normally shame the big man came boiling up, tinting the scene with a red mist, and sending his hand seeking the hilt of his sword. As Boromir’s scarred fingers closed around the well-worn leather wrapping, Aragorn bent his head and a tear fell to darken the Queen’s coverlet. ‘Unfit,’ murmured the cool, reasonable voice. ‘The Heir is not the King that Gondor needs. You are strong and untroubled by sentiment. For the good of the realm, kill him. Strike now, while he is unsuspecting.’ Boromir trembled as the part of him that Arwen had reclaimed resisted the compulsion to slay his friend.

Haldir glanced at Legolas and raised one eyebrow. “I feel a chill that has nothing to do with all this stone.”

The Vigil nodded curtly, scanning the room for signs of danger. “There is a darkness in my mind that is not my own. It comes from outside.”

The Marchwarden’s serene gaze skimmed the tableau at the bedside and settled on the most interesting mortal in the room. The slender silk-swathed figure was evidently a nurse of sorts, but it surprised the Elf to find an Umbaran so close to the royal family. The lad must have the Heir’s implicit trust, though Haldir could sense no long term connection, or great regard, between them. Here was a puzzle, and Haldir delighted in such. He was on the verge of asking Prince Legolas a question, when the other Elf lunged across the room.

Arwen looked over her shoulder as the shadow of Boromir’s sword fell over the linen. Her shouted warning came a split-second after the Vigil’s, as she drew her dagger and shoved Aragorn to the side. The Heir let go of his mother’s hand and reached for Anduril, shielding her body with his. Legolas knew that for all his speed he would never reach Boromir in time. He must trust to the Lady Arwen, or find another way to stop Gondor’s great champion. Changing course in mid-stride, the Vigil launched himself at the Umbaran boy. Silently begging the lad’s forgiveness, Legolas threw him at Boromir. Boromir staggered, his stroke going awry, but the seasoned warrior pivoted, shifting his weight and bringing his blade around in a low arc. The broadsword sheared easily through the costly fabric of Romen’s robes and continued on to open a horrid wound across his belly. The sorcerer-king’s control over the man was broken, and Boromir sagged as Arwen’s arm snaked around his neck and her knife pricked his throat. The point of Haldir’s sword dimpled the skin on the other side of the captain’s neck. Boromir went still as stone, not even breathing until Aragorn spoke.

“Hold!” the Heir shouted, as Romen crumpled to the floor at the Vigil’s feet. “No one is to kill anyone yet.”

“I fear it is too late for Castamir,” Legolas said as he knelt.

Romen laughed, spraying his chin and the Elf’s arm with bright red. “Fools.”

“Do not try to speak,” Legolas told him. “Lady Arwen! Will you help?”

Arwen looked to Aragorn and at his nod, she sheathed her dagger and left her beloved under Haldir’s guard. As she sank to the floor beside the injured Umbaran, he used the last of his strength to grab at her hand. Arwen flinched, her eyes widening as Romen’s skin grazed hers. Flinging herself backward, she stared in shock. “That is not Castamir.”

The Vigil pulled the winding scarf from the dying Umbaran’s face and studied the fine features closely. “He looks like Castamir, and yet… Who are you?” the Elf demanded to know, as he clutched a fistful of the ruined robe.

Romen laughed again, a wet chuckle that roughened the skin like a sudden chill. “Fools, and you are the biggest fool of all, Sindar slave,” he whispered.

“He is one of the enemy sorcerers,” Haldir said confidently.

“He practices the Black Arts, that is plain enough,” Arwen said.

“What was your purpose here?” the Vigil shook Romen when the Umbaran’s eyelids slid down.

“Where is the Steward?” Aragorn asked, looming over those on the floor.

Romen’s velvet dark eyes met the gaze of Isildur’s Heir and saw steel. “It seems that all I have accomplished… is to give you new resolve. How… ironic,” he coughed. A warm torrent of crimson soaked into black silk and ran over the Elf’s white knuckles. “I lost my… gamble, but… you… will lose… your Queen. I take the… secret… of her malady… with me.”

Aragorn dropped to his knees next the Vigil and clutched at the Umbaran’s shoulders. “Tell me,” he demanded. “How do I wake her?” Romen favored them with a red grin and went limp. “No!” the Heir shouted, shaking the dead man. “Tell me! Tell me!”

“Your Highness?” Haldir said inquiringly, and three sets of eyes focused on him. “This warrior needs tending.”

Boromir swayed on his feet and would have gone down had Arwen not been there. Drawing his arm around her shoulders, she beckoned the Marchwarden with her eyes and Haldir helped convey the Man to a bench. Legolas put his hands over Aragorn’s and pried the Heir’s fingers from the bloody cloth of Romen’s robes. Aragorn looked up into the Vigil’s inky blue eyes and abruptly flung away from him. “Leave me,” Aragorn said through clenched teeth.

“You know I cannot.”

“And I say you will. All of you. Get out. Now!” Such was Aragorn’s power of command in that moment that all but the Vigil began moving toward the door.

“Let me help you,” Legolas said.

“You have done enough. I believed you had feelings just like anyone else. I would not listen when the Steward told me that you had none, that you were a heartless killer, an assassin sent to guard me because of an ancient pact and a binding spell. I let you worm your way into my confidence and now you have destroyed my hope.”

“I wished only to save your life.”

“Yes, that is your over-riding imperative, is it not? And you would do anything to keep me from harm. You would even bed me to get closer so you might ward me more efficiently. I understand now. How could you care for me when you have no heart?”

“I have a heart.”

Aragorn shook his head. “You tossed that boy onto Boromir’s blade without a second thought, as if you and he had never shared joy, as if he was a piece of furniture. How can you tell me you have a heart?”

“I do not understand all that has passed here, but that is not Castamir’s body. Arwen will tell you. Call her back.”

“Leave me,” Aragorn repeated. “I wish to be alone with my mother.”

“I will be at the door.” The Vigil crossed the chamber and stood out of Aragorn’s line of sight while he yearned with his whole being to be at the Heir’s side. It was an actual physical sensation like a bowstring drawn back too far, his every muscle taut, resisting a pull as inexorable as the sway the moon held over the sea. It could not be overcome, residing as it did in the Vigil’s blood and bone; he was iron, and Aragorn was the lodestone.

Aragorn’s shoulders sagged and his chin dropped to his chest as he gazed down on his mother in her unnatural slumber. She might never wake, unless he could find a cure, but he didn’t even know yet what afflicted her. He was not a worthy son; how could he hope to serve all Gondor, if he could not even fulfill his filial duties? All his hard-won self-confidence eroded under the pelting of doubt and guilt. Even if he should win this war and save Minas Tirith, he would count it a hollow victory and of little worth unless the Queen should look upon his triumph and smile with pride. What was a lover’s praise beside the approval of the one that had given him life? A small sob rose in his throat and was muffled as he put his head down against the coverlet and wept.

Legolas had taken three steps toward Aragorn before he was aware he’d moved. The Man’s sorrow was a spear thrust through the Elf’s heart. His longing to comfort his charge was equal to the hatred he had once felt for Aragorn’s Race and it burned like the touch of freezing metal. Being this far from the Heir’s presence was like standing sentry naked on a deep winter’s night. He would never be warm again if Aragorn did not look kindly on him.

The light footsteps of an Elf that wished his presence known made Legolas turn. Haldir had returned alone. “Prince of the great woodland realm,” the Marchwarden said, bowing his head. “Will you hear my message now?”

The Vigil’s eyes had already returned to the young Man kneeling in the chamber. “If you wish,” he said.

“Your sire bade me speak these words to you, and he did not care if others should hear.”

“Nor do I. Speak.”

Haldir tilted his head to one side. “You are different and yet the same as at our first meeting,” he observed. “Cold you are and yet, beneath your ice, I sense such heat as would melt all the snow in the North. Is this a consequence of the binding you labor under?”

“Are you here to ask questions, or deliver a message?”

“You are without doubt the rudest of Galadrim, but I remind myself that you have been among the humans for some time now.”

“I was rude before ever I met my first Man,” Legolas answered. “Surely my sire has filled your pretty ears with tales of my madness and ingratitude. He could never forgive that my royal blood meant so little to me.”

“It means much to King Thranduil that you are of his blood, and that you are all he has left of his beloved consort.” Haldir paused, as the Vigil’s eyes went hard and bright as enamel. “The King shared many memories with me, Prince. I think he would like to share them with you, if you would but allow it.”

“No forgiveness, no honor, no love. He will have nothing of me but the duty I owe him as my sovereign, and not even that, now that my life belongs to Gondor’s Heir.”

“You trouble me.”

“Then I ask your forgiveness, Haldir the Splendid, and that of your Lady for marring your perfection with so much as a frown. If you have finished your meddling in the affairs of my family, I believe there was some message you were anxious to deliver.”

Haldir was silent for a long moment, his silvery gaze neutral. “You sadden me,” he said at last. “Long have I heard the tales of the wild prince of Mirkwood that dared go where others did not and slew fell beasts in the darkness of the world’s evil places. I admired you in secret and wished many times to give up my responsibilities and seek you out, to join you and the Peredhil in your adventures. I knew that it could never be, of course; my path lay along a different road, but still you were to me as Gil-Galad.”

Legolas watched Aragorn pull the coverlet up to Queen Gilraen’s neck as he answered. “I cannot imagine your disappointment in me. Was there aught else? I will be needed soon.”

“You have always been needed,” Haldir replied. “But I will not take up more of your time. King Thranduil bids me wish you good fortune in battle, and wishes that you will return one day soon that he might make certain explanations. He says further that if you do not return to Mirkwood, he will come to Minas Tirith to speak with you.”

Legolas let none of his shock show on his face. “I will not call you a liar and add to my reputation for rudeness, but it is well-known that the ruler of Mirkwood the Mighty does not leave the green fortress of his kingdom for anyone. Even the Lord and Lady of Lorien came to him when they wished a meeting.”

“You will not hear what you do not wish to,” Haldir said softly to the back of Legolas’s head, as the Vigil walked away from him.

“What is your will?” Legolas asked the Heir.

Aragorn’s focus returned to the here and now. “Let in the Guards that they may carry the Umbaran’s body hence for study. Perhaps there may yet be some clue…”

“Command me,” the Vigil prompted, when the Man’s words trailed off.

“Have I ever commanded you?” Aragorn wondered. “It seems to me that you have always done as you willed. I think we must have a test of obedience.”

“You have but to make your will known.”

“Then I charge you with the finding of the Steward, or at the least, some hint of where he has gone. Do not return without some news.”

The black ice at Legolas’s core that had thawed under the sun of Gondor’s best hope reformed, colder and bitterer. He swallowed the burning words that rose in his throat like bile, choking on the need to scream that he would die if banished from Aragorn’s presence. The Elf knew he would not die; he would only wish to, but in the Heir’s face he could see no softness that would yield to such argument as he could make. Minas Tirith finally had what she needed: a King that would not let his emotions cloud his judgment.

Feeling the leaden weight of despair begin to settle over his spirit, the Vigil bowed his head. Aragorn’s gaze lingered on the battle braids gleaming with pewter softness in the early morning light. It was not without a great inner struggle that the Heir kept his hands at his sides, resisting the urge to stroke the pale hair, to kiss the sweet lips that were so out of place on the countenance of such a fierce warrior. “You may go,” he said.

tbc


	21. baileymoyes — LiveJournal

Part Twenty-One  
Please see chapter one for synopsis.  
Pairing: Aragorn/Legolas  
Rated: NC17  
Disclaimer: I borrow these characters from J.R.R. Tolkien with love and respect.  
Thank you, Jean.  
:::::::::::::::::::::::::>  
  
Haldir hurried after the Elf rapidly disappearing down the street that led away from the Houses of Healing. Legolas did not slow his stride and the Marchwarden had to break into a trot to catch him. The scales of his shimmering mail chimed softly against the shining plate armor that protected his joints. It was a martial music, ringing sweet and wild in the ears of Mirkwood’s rebel prince, but the call to battle stirred him not. A leaden pall lay over his spirit like the smoke of war that hid Minas Tirith from the sun and he did not acknowledge the Lorien Elf’s presence when Haldir reached his side.

“Prince Legolas,” the Marchwarden said. “Allow me to offer my aid in your search.”

“I cannot control your actions.”

Haldir ignored the discourteous reply. “Have you any suggestions where we might look?”

“Anywhere but here,” Legolas said tersely. “If you would do me a kindness, you will leave me alone.”

“You are not well,” Haldir said, moving in front of the Vigil.

“Do not hinder me.”

Haldir nearly took a step back from the implacable tone in Legolas’s soft voice. The Prince’s eyes were as cold and dead as the heart of an iceberg. A chill struck at the Marchwarden’s steadfast heart, shaking him to his solid core. His faith in the Light was strong, having lived most of his days in Its last outpost on Middle Earth, but that grace faded before the black howling emptiness that screamed silently in the Vigil’s gaze. “Let me take you to the Lady Arwen,” Haldir said.

“For what purpose? This is no hedge-wizard’s spell that binds me. The sword and the ring were forged with the blessing of the Valar to be a pledge and a bridge between our Race and Man. I am one with the Heir. Can you understand what this means?”

“By your tone, you would say that I cannot, but I tell you that each moment spent away from my Lady is a lifetime to me. It may not be evident in my speech or my action, but to be so far from the green and gold heart of all I hold dear weighs down my spirit. I cannot speak of the depths of your pain, but I feel its echo; I know that you suffer and I know the nature of your suffering.”

“Then move from my path.”

“So I shall, after saying this. Remember your duty always. It is not solace, but it is the best distraction for such as we.”

Legolas was silent for a long moment, staring into the Marchwarden’s earnest gaze, and seeing, against all expectation, a kindred soul. He raised a gloved hand to clasp Haldir’s biceps in a rough salute. “I intend to search among the enemy,” he said.

Haldir nodded. “I see your logic. It is most likely that the Umbaran boy was a spy and the Steward killed or taken hostage.”

“It is not logical,” Legolas contradicted. “Yet, I feel it to be so.”

The Marchwarden drew breath to speak, but Faramir’s shout forestalled him. Haldir and Legolas turned as the Steward’s younger son and his companions reached them.

“Vigil,” Faramir said, pointing up the street. “Where are you going when your charge is back there?”

“I have orders.”

Elrohir laughed, drawing the stares of the others. “Legolas of Mirkwood following orders,” he said. “It amuses me.”

“I do not find it amusing,” Legolas said.

“You have forgotten yourself, brother of my heart,” Elrohir said.

Elladan nodded. “You are not the Legolas we set out to find.”

“I am not,” the Vigil agreed. “And we are wasting time.”

“Your place is with the Heir,” Faramir said. “We will search for my father. Elrohir and Elladan have made many raids on the enemy encampment and are better suited to the task than any other here.”

“Deny the logic of this,” Haldir challenged Legolas.

“I cannot and I burn to be with Aragorn, but it was he that ordered me from his presence.”

“Then ignore those orders as you have ignored those of your Sire all these years,” Elladan answered. “Ever you have followed your heart, Lasse.”

“Do not stop now,” Elrohir finished for his twin.

Legolas looked down at the plain band of the ring of power on his forefinger. The circle was a most potent symbol of power, representing the never-ending cycles of the world. It came to him then that it also symbolized unity, and a simple truth bloomed in his mind. He and Aragorn together were much greater than the sum of their parts, and vastly stronger than either was alone. It was a terrible mistake to leave the Heir. “I must go to him,” he said.

“Keep him safe,” Faramir said. “He is precious and much beloved and his loss would shatter many hearts and hopes.”

Legolas nodded curtly and turned to the Twain. “Good hunting,” he said, in their customary phrase at leave-taking, but this time, he added new words. “Come safely home.”

“As you command,” Elrohir bowed with exaggerated reverence.

“As you wish,” Elladan said, making appeal with his eyes.

The stern features of the Vigil softened, and he held out his arms. Elrohir and Elladan moved forward to embrace their erstwhile companion, as they had been wont to do in the days when they roamed errant. Kissing each on the forehead, Legolas let go of the twins and made haste back the way he had come, back to the Houses of Healing.  
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“To my sorrow, there is naught else I may do for her,” Arwen said, as she placed Gilraen’s hand back on the coverlet. “She wanders in dreams that are much to her liking and her feo will not hear me. If I but knew the method by which she was…”

“We may never know,” Aragorn answered, fighting to keep the bitterness from his voice. “But you have made every effort and now you are weary before the battle has even begun.” Arwen’s lips twitched and the Man realized that he had become somewhat adept at reading Elvish expressions. “Of course, you have already fought a great battle this morning,” he added. “I was speaking of the contest of arms we still face with Umbar’s legions.”

“I take your meaning, Heir of Isildur and I find your humanity… endearing. You have rekindled in me a passion for balancing injustice by the might of my mind as well as that of my arm. Your people hail me by the name Warrior Princess and I see fear as well as wonder in their eyes. Long has my father wished me to return to Rivendell to take up again my studies in the ancient arts of my line, but I have longed only to sleep under the stars after a day spent keeping our borders safe.” Arwen paused. “Prince Legolas and I are much alike in devotion to our Race’s survival, but now I question the single-mindedness of my mission. Have I neglected individuals in service to the whole? If I am not true to those I profess to love, how may I be trusted to make decisions for the good of a nation?”

“You are as wise as you are beautiful and your eyes see much that is hidden,” Aragorn said. “You have my thanks, Lady, but I fear my heart belongs to one that cannot feel love.”

“No word of mine will convince you until you are ready to believe,” she said, placing her palm briefly to Gilraen’s forehead in farewell. “And I must go to lead my troops.”

Boromir straightened from his slouch in the doorway, a consummate soldier that never stood when he could rest. His gaze fastened on Arwen like an eagle sighting his mate on the wind, and he judged her temper by the deepened color of her chatoyant eyes. Her fire jumped the gap between them like the lighting of a signal beacon and the Captain’s hand went to the hilt of his sword. He did not ask if the word was given; he could feel the Heir’s will to go forth and vanquish those that had so grievously injured that which he loved.

“Aragorn! My liege!” Boromir called out as he drew forth his great blade. “I will meet you again on a red field atop a mountain of Umbar’s dead.”

Aragorn straightened his shoulders, unwilling to show his Captain the despair that Arwen had sensed. His people must not know that his resolve sprang from a growing belief that none of it mattered. No matter how many battles were won, there were always losses and more battles to be fought. “We will meet again,” he said to Boromir and Arwen. “If aught should befall me, I would wish that any child of yours might be named my heir.”

Boromir and Arwen exchanged a swift glance. “If my liege commands it,” Boromir drawled.

“If there should be such a child,” Arwen said pointedly.

“I am glad to have that settled,” Aragorn said, as the Vigil appeared in the doorway. “If you will excuse me now, I see I have other business to attend.”

Legolas stood aside for the couple and did not speak until Aragorn bade him. “This is my place,” he said.

“That is all of your explanation for disobeying my order?”

“It is the only explanation.”

“And what of the Steward?”

“Faramir and the sons of Elrond search for him.”

Aragorn nodded. “They are best equipped for it,” he admitted. “I was angry with you when I sent you hence.”

“I beg you not to do so again.”

“Beg? You?”

“I cannot bear to be parted from you.”

“The cursed spell of that ring,” Aragorn said. “How much sorrow in this world has been caused by the lust for rings of power?”

Legolas bowed his head. “I am near to breaking,” he said.

Aragorn’s heart contracted with a sudden sharp pain that stole his breath. He could feel the Vigil’s agony and wondered how the Elf remained on his feet. “How is it that I can feel so strongly what you are feeling?”

“I never allowed it until now. As soon as I realized the nature of the spell and how complete the bond was, I began to guard my thoughts and feelings from you. I could not allow you to have such power over me. Not you nor anyone.”

“You hid well in plain sight.”

“I had much practice at my Sire’s court.”

“And now?”

“I am trusting you not to hurt me.”

Aragorn swayed as his Vigil’s memories flooded into him through the link of the bond, permeating his essence until he stood with Legolas in countless moments of the past and felt what the Elf had felt as though they were one. In that brief eternity, Aragorn realized a simple truth. He had already found peace; it was in Legolas’s eyes and in his embrace as they lay together. “I am sorry I said you had no heart,” he said softly.

Legolas looked up. “I do not,” he said. “I gave it to you.”

“Elves,” Aragorn sighed. “You come of an older, wiser Race than mine and I fear you will one day lose patience with me and leave me forever.”

“Still your fears. I cannot leave your side even under a direct order.”

“I had noticed.” Aragorn cleared his throat. “Will you not embrace me?”

Legolas was across the chamber before the Heir finished speaking. Their arms went around one another in a fierce embrace born of an emotion so large it left no room for gentleness. Each divined the other’s desire and Aragorn drew back to put his fingers over the Elf’s lips and whisper. “Not here.”

“As you command,” the Vigil said, taking the Heir’s hand and pulling him from the sickroom.

Aragorn let himself be led, knowing he had not the time for this dalliance, but unable to deny himself or Legolas. He smiled when the Vigil steered him into the small garden where the healers grew their herbs, and he stripped off his fine cloak to throw upon the ground. Legolas took it from his hands, and draped it over a bench behind a screen of vines. The Elf turned and was swept into Aragorn’s arms for a kiss that made the blood sing in their veins.

“Take me,” the Vigil said breathlessly, turning his back on the Heir and bracing himself against the bench. “Let me know I am yours.”

“You are free,” Aragorn contradicted. “I do not own you.”

“I give myself to you and that is what makes the belonging sweet. Claim me, Aragorn. Let me ride into battle beside you knowing you love me best of all.”

“I do,” Aragorn said, against the Vigil’s nape.

The Man felt the shiver that ran the length of the supple frame as he began to unlace the leather leggings of the Vigil’s uniform. This frantic coupling did not sit well with Aragorn’s romantic notions of the act of love, but the lust that flared up in him was hotter than the forge of Feanor. By the time he had bared Legolas’s ivory backside, he was hard and eager to bury his shaft in the Elf’s velvet heat. Neither was willing to wait and with the help of the fluid already seeping from Aragorn’s arousal, the Heir entered his Vigil without delay. Taking hold of Legolas’s slim hips, fingers curving around the winged bones, Aragorn rocked into the narrow passage in short, steady strokes.

“Ah yes,” the Elf breathed. “I feel the pulse of life in your staff; I feel your eagerness to be one with me. Do not hold back, my own. I wish to feel your strength.”

“Why, my best beloved?”

Legolas trembled with the force of the emotion that swept through him. “You make me feel desired, beautiful and cherished when you take me like this. I revel in your impatience.”

Aragorn set aside his fine manners and his fear of doing the Elf an injury and gave the Vigil what he craved. Grasping the Elf around his supple waist, the Man laid his cheek against the leather of the Vigil’s tunic and thrust powerfully. Legolas’s knuckles whitened where he gripped the back of the bench as he widened his stance, providing solid resistance for Aragorn to push against. The Heir’s weapon hand crept down until his fingers wrapped around the Elf’s hard flesh. Legolas bit down on his lower lip to stifle a glad cry when the Man began to stroke him to the rhythm set by the plunging cock.

“None but you,” the Vigil breathed as he spilled his seed over the Heir’s shuttling fingers.

Aragorn gasped as the clinging muscles of the Elf’s sheath clamped down on his rod, massaging his aching length. “My only one,” he panted, thrusting in sharp shallow strokes until his groin tightened and his release unspooled into the fenny channel. “My heart.”

Spent, the Heir leaned on the Vigil’s back for long moments of peaceful lassitude. The breeze blew over them, bringing coolness, the fresh green scent of the herbs and the song of a solitary bird. Without speaking, Elf and Man mused together on these things that did not change, come what may. It was oddly comforting to know that though they might fall in battle this day, the world would go on and there would be good things in it. Simple things…

Aragorn raised his head. “I must go to the library,” he said.

“Your troops await you.” Legolas remained still as the Man disengaged, and began doing up laces in haste.

“I think I know where to find the cause of my mother’s mysterious sleep.”

“If you tarry, many might perish.”

“If I die in the fray, she may never wake.”

Legolas inclined his head and waited for the Heir to make his decision.

tbc


	22. baileymoyes — LiveJournal

Part Twenty-Two  
Please see chapter one for synopsis.  
Pairing: Aragorn/Legolas  
Rated: NC17  
Disclaimer: I borrow these characters from J.R.R. Tolkien with love and respect.  
Thank you, Jean.  
:::::::::::::::::::::::::>

“You must lead the armies for me,” Aragorn told his Vigil.  
  
“You think they will follow me?”

Aragorn removed the ring of Barahir from his forefinger. “They will if you are wearing this,” he said. “You must do this for me, Legolas. You are as capable as I of leading troops, but only I know where to seek the cure for my mother’s illness.”

The Vigil bowed his head. “I will do as you bid me, but be swift.”

The Heir slipped his ring onto Legolas’s finger, and raised his hand to touch the Elf’s cheek. “It is still a wonder to me that one who looks as innocent and beautiful as the first dawn of creation should be such a fierce and mighty warrior.”

“Shall I collect a few scars?”

“Nay!” Aragorn’s answer was quick and the dismay in his voice made the Elf smile.

“If you find me beautiful then I shall endeavor to remain so. Now I will beg a boon of you.”

Aragorn raised his eyebrows. “Name it.”

“One kiss for luck.”

“You do not believe in luck. You have told me so yourself.”

“Then kiss me because I would go into battle with the taste of you on my lips until I can fill my mouth with the blood of your enemies.”

Aragorn took the Vigil’s face between his hands. “I know how hard it is for you to be parted from me for I feel the pain as though it were my own. I will never forget the sacrifices you have made for me.” Gently, the Man touched his lips to the Elf’s, his mouth moving with subtle pressure, trying to convey all that he was feeling.

Legolas pulled the Heir close and returned the kiss, blending passion, sorrow and longing into one ineffable emotion that was both benison and torment. “I cannot leave you,” he gasped as their lips parted.

“You must. There is a higher duty than your vows to me.”

Legolas nodded, though his heart would not admit the truth of Aragorn’s words. In all of existence, there was none so worthy of saving as the Man that stood before him. “Go,” the Vigil said. “Before my resolve weakens again.”

Aragorn spun and hurried away to the great library of Minas Tirith. Legolas finished donning his vambraces and pauldrons, carefully tightening the leather laces of the overlapping metal pieces to allow freedom of movement. He was not accustomed to wearing armor, but his beloved had insisted and it went on easily enough over his Vigil’s uniform. The helmet was naught more than a steel and leather cap without nose or cheeks guards for Legolas would not compromise his field of vision for an extra measure of safety. His final act of arming was to remove the ring of Barahir just long enough to put on his gloves. The emerald eyes of the serpents glowed against the black leather as the Elf raised his fist aloft in a silent pledge. He would not fail Aragorn no matter the cost to himself.  
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Isildur’s Heir entered the great library and hurried to the section that housed the collections from aboriginal peoples. Scanning the seals on the pigeonholes, he selected the one that contained the journal of a Wose shaman that he had translated. He needed the original writing, because he realized now that he’d made a mistake. The ogam rune that he’d transcribed as a healing sleep was something more esoteric and sinister. The small hash mark to the left that he had taken for a slip of the shaman’s bird bone pen was a marker that indicated a darker meaning. The juice of the herb the Wose described could be distilled to cause unconsciousness that would last until another drug was administered.

Aragorn remembered well the afternoon he had spent here with Faramir translating this goatskin scroll. It was at dinner that evening that his mother had told him of her decision to step down and retire to her homeland. She had waited only for the Vigil’s arrival to insure her son would be protected, and then she had boarded a royal vessel for the journey down the river. A journey that was over even as it began when Queen Gilraen’s ship was attacked and she was taken hostage by agents of Umbar. Aragorn did not know any longer if the war-provoking abduction was at the behest of the Corsair King, or the ruler of Umbar, and he was not sure he cared. All he wanted was for his mother to wake and this siege to be over.

Clutching the ancient scroll, Aragorn dashed from the library toward the Houses of Healing. He sought out the apothecary and wrote out the ingredients of the formula written in berry juice on the goat hide. The apothecary sent for the herbalist, and a lively discussion ensued that was abruptly ended when the Heir banged a fist on the table, rattling the glassware.

“I have no time to listen to you debate. If you have what is needed, then fetch it now!”

“Aye, Sire!” the herbalist and apothecary said simultaneously as they scurried to do his bidding. Though the wait seemed long to Aragorn, the ingredients of the antidote were soon gathered and the distillation begun. There was no way to speed up the steps of this process, and Aragorn’s mind strayed often to the battlefield so far below.  
::::::::::::::::::::::

“With me!” the Vigil roared, and his troops closed ranks behind him in a flying wedge. Elves, Men and some with the blood of both in their veins, surged in where Legolas led. The Sindar held aloft the charmed sword Aiglosithil and on his finger burned the signet of the House of Elendil, welding the two disparate Races into a single entity under the command of the Prince of Mirkwood in the name of the Lord of the White Tree.

The Umbarans fell back before the controlled fury of the City’s defenders. They were almost to the riverbanks with nowhere to go after that but into their ships. The charge led by Legolas in the center and by Arwen and Boromir to the right and by Faramir and the Twain on the left wing had broken the Umbaran line and they continued to hammer the Eastrons, harrying them to the shore of the Anduin. At the thin end of the wedge, Legolas threw himself forward, riding his steed over the next rank of Umbarans as though they were a hedge of steel. The dark robed warriors closed in around him and abruptly the Elf was cut off from the Gondorian forces. His arm rose and fell, chopping and skewering each foe that stood between him and clear space. The horse staggered as its front hooves came down at the edge of the short bluff and several large clods of soil fell away into the water a few feet below. Legolas vaulted from the saddle, but his mount had already overbalanced and tumbled down the steep bank. The Elf threw himself after the horse, turning to make a stand with the wooden wall of a hull at his back, but no one followed him down the incline.

Warily, Legolas bent to snag the bridle of the struggling horse and lead it away from the stony slope into deeper water. Clinging to the stirrup, the Elf let the animal tow him alongside the ship until they rounded the stern. “Hannon le,” Legolas murmured as he caught hold of a mooring line and watched the cavalry mount swim away. Hand over hand, the Elf began to climb. As long as he was this near the flagship, he might as well do some damage.

No one on board noticed as Legolas came over the rail with the ease of a lizard on a branch. Lifting the first hatch he came to, the Vigil dropped below deck into the hollow darkness of a hold. His intention was to hole the craft below the waterline, but a soft sound drew him to a shadowed corner. Huddled like a pile of dirty clothing, manacled and lying in filth, the Elf almost didn’t recognize Gondor’s proud Steward.

“Denethor,” the Vigil said, touching the prisoner’s shoulder.

Bleary eyes peered out of a tangle of filthy hair. “You will get nothing from me,” the Steward grated. “Torture me as you will; I will not give up a single password.”

“Can you walk?” Legolas asked.

Denethor focused his narrow gaze on the figure leaning over him, the scant light forming a nimbus around a crown of pale hair. “You,” he breathed.

Legolas reached down to pull the man to his feet and saw a shadow pass over the Steward’s face. The Elf whirled around, but too late. Something solid and weighty struck the side of his skull and he fell into darkness.  
:::::::::::::::::::

Arwen strode the halls of the Houses of Healing in blood-spattered leather, her boot heels ringing loudly in the hushed atmosphere. Ignoring disapproving glances, she marched directly to Queen Gilraen’s room and entered. She found the Heir seated on the bed, holding his mother’s hand between both of his.

“You came,” Aragorn said as he looked up.

“The tide of battle has turned,” she said, giving him a fierce smile. “Without their sorcerer-king, the Umbarans have lost heart. It is as if some malevolent will controlled them and without its influence, they have none of their own. The killing has become too easy to be sporting.”

“I hope it will end soon.” Aragorn sighed. “I found a remedy for my mother’s condition, but it has not seemed to help. I hoped that your counsel might shed some light.”

“I will do whatever I may.” Arwen looked at the formula written out on vellum now in the apothecary’s neat handwriting and held the vial Aragorn offered up to the light. “This is a distillate? An oil? And how did you administer it?”

“The healer put a tube in her mouth and…”

“I see,” Arwen interrupted. “Have you a metal vessel?”

In moments, Arwen had poured a few drops of the oil into a pewter cup and held it over a flame. She directed Aragorn to hold a piece of cloth over the cup to infuse it with the perfumed smoke that curled into the air. It was a smell neither pleasant, not unpleasant, but oddly neutral like snow or dust, but Aragorn noted that he felt oddly alert after breathing a bit of it and his hopes were fanned back to blazing life. Carefully, he placed the soft fabric over Gilraen’s face and watched intently.

“How did you find this formula?” Arwen asked, taking Aragorn’s hand in support.

“I remembered reading about a drug that the Woses used when treating severe injuries and it came to me that the description of the effects matched my mother’s strange sleep.”

“I think she will wake now,” Arwen squeezed his hand. “And you need not worry about the battle. It is well in hand. You have such warriors in Gondor! Never did I think to see such deeds of valor performed in the figure of a Man.”

“Do you mean our entire Race, or one Man in particular?”

“You may taunt me, if you will,” Arwen answered. “For it is true that a Man holds my heart in his keeping. I do not think my father will be best pleased by my choice, but in truth, I had no choice but the choice of Luthien.”

“I am glad to see more cordial relations between our Peoples,” Aragorn answered mildly.

Arwen glanced sideways at the Heir. “I think you will be a good King,” she said.

The Evenstar’s words touched Aragorn deeply, and it was through a shimmer of tears that he saw the cloth over Gilraen’s face move slightly. He thought at first that it was an illusion, but then the Queen coughed and her hand stirred weakly on the coverlet. Springing to her side, Aragorn lifted the scarf and Gilraen’s eyes fluttered open. She focused on the face of her son, and her brow furrowed to see tears in his eyes.

“What is it, my child?” she whispered in a voice rusty from disuse.

Aragorn smiled as he wept and bent to her cheek. “You have returned to me and it is like the coming of Spring after a long Winter.”

“I was… Ah, I remember being taken hostage. I should not have left you, but…”

Aragorn stroked her hair soothingly. “It is all right. I understand that you felt caged.”

“You have changed,” she said in wonder. “Your eyes are different, older somehow. How long have I slumbered?”

“That does not matter. You are well, the City is safe, and I have survived the first trial of my unofficial reign with less damage than I would have imagined.”

Gilraen’s eyes strayed to the tall warrior standing behind her son and her frown deepened. “Who is this Elf? Where is your Vigil?”  
:::::::::::::::::::::::::

Faramir rode in through the gates at the head of his troops to the cheers of the folk of Minas Tirith. He glanced to his left and right at Elrohir and Elladan, giving each a smile of gratitude for he owed them his life a dozen times over, and he was glad to hear the citizens lauding the Elves as well as the Knights. He wished for a moment that his father might witness this moment of triumph, but he was content that he had done his duty, whether the Steward would ever appreciate the fact or not. His sire’s approval would be very nice, but if it never came, Faramir’s accomplishments would not be lessened.

Another troop of mounted soldiers entered the square and Faramir turned at the sound of his name. Boromir forged a path through the orderly convergence of the two groups, his grin very white in a mask of red. They met and leaned in their saddles to clasp forearms in a warrior’s salute, and then Boromir yanked his little brother forward into a rib-cracking hug. Faramir caught his breath and returned the embrace warmly.

“I am glad to see you alive, brother,” Boromir laughed, still full of the fire of battle.

“I am glad to be seen in such a state,” Faramir answered. “And you as well.”

Boromir drew back, keeping a hand on Faramir’s shoulder, their chargers jostling gently for hoof space. “Did you see them run for their ships at the end? Like the serpents on their banners: cut off the head and they wriggle for naught. Come, let us give the news to Arry.”

Faramir chuckled at the use of the Heir’s childhood nickname and nodded to Haldir as the Lorien Elf led a band of archers into the City. “We need one more Captain to complete our company,” he said, looking around the large courtyard. “Who has seen the Vigil?”  
:::::::::::::::

“The wind is with us, sir!”

“Finally, something in our favor.”

Legolas regained consciousness to the sound of voices speaking in Umbaran above his head. Faint light crept between the lattices of a wooden grate and the soles of a pair of boots. When he tried to move, he discovered that he was manacled, hand and foot, with chains designed to support the weight of an anchor. Next to him lay the Steward, watching and listening with the intensity of a hunting hound.

“They are under way,” Denethor muttered, as though the Elf could not feel the motion of the ship. “They are defeated, but they snatch one victory from the pyre of failure. They have deprived Gondor of a steady hand at her helm.”

“You speak of yourself, as always, but Aragorn managed to command the armies and lead them to victory over Umbar without you,” the Vigil replied without glancing at the Man.

“I thought… Did Boromir not take up generalship?”

“He did not. He put his loyalty where it belongs: in the service of his sovereign.”

“Boromir,” the Steward whispered, sinking back to the wooden decking. “How could you fail me thus?”

“Your son did not betray you. He did credit to his upbringing and remembered that his oath was more precious than ties of kinship.”

“You are an Elf. What would you know of the affairs of Men?” Denethor said bitterly.

“I understand you better than you might suppose for until I became a Vigil, I shared many of your flaws. You believe yourself long-sighted, but you cannot see beyond the boundaries of your own country and your own Race. I know this feeling well. You do not trust in the intelligence, strength or dedication of others for you cannot believe that they have your high-minded commitment to something greater than the petty concerns of day to day life. You do not see that each day is a link in the chain that becomes history; each moment is precious, unique and essential. The smallest doings of the smallest child are of equal weight as the edicts of a ruler if you be that child’s grandsire. You and I have too long turned our eyes to the heights and neglected those we should have the most care for.”

“You dare to counsel me.”

“Only because you need it sorely, and I am in a unique position to give good counsel. If I survive this war, I shall ask leave of the Heir to visit my father and ask his forgiveness. I think you should search your heart for the names of those you owe apologies to.”

Denethor turned away from the Elf for he had no more arguments to make. It seemed his treachery had not been discovered, and he had hopes of regaining his place with none the wiser, if only he could escape. His treatment at the hands of the Umbarans had been brutal: no food and very little water delivered with a vicious beating. He was too proud to let the Vigil see the damage hidden by his stained robes, and maintained his mask of superior contempt in the face of the creature’s unrelenting recitation of facts. It was all true, but the Elf did not have the wit to see as far, or as wide as Denethor.

“Put on more sail!” the Umbaran captain’s shouted commands filtered through the grate. “Pass the slower ships and blast anything that does not move quickly enough from our path!”

“They will kill their own to save their hides,” Legolas sneered. “They are not worthy enemies.”

“They captured you,” Denethor observed dryly, as he huddled back in on himself in an effort to stop his cracked ribs from aching with each breath.

Legolas acknowledged this with a lift of one eyebrow as he gazed up through the latticed hatch. If only he could get free of these chains, he could make it to the rail and into the water during the commotion, but he would have to leave the Steward behind. Though the Man did his best to hide it, the Elf could see the small signs that Denethor was injured. Legolas did not believe the Steward would survive long in Umbar if he arrived there alive. With a divided mind, the Vigil turned to the brackets set into the deck of the hold and began to inspect the bolts that held them there.  
::::::::::::::::::::::

Arwen met the jubilant, bloodstained parade of victorious Knights and Elves before they reached the palace. She gave them the glad news of Queen’s recovery and led them to a courtyard where Aragorn sat with his mother in the sunshine. When Gilraen raised a hand and smiled, the crowd cheered exultantly until Aragorn stood. Falling silent, they waited to hear what their uncrowned King would say. Aragorn searched the front line, his glad expression hardening into a frown when he did not find what he sought.

“My friends,” he said. “Where is the Vigil?”

tbc


	23. baileymoyes — LiveJournal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this alternative Middle Earth, Elendil’s line continues to rule Gondor. The last king, Arathorn, died when his only heir was but two. Now that Prince Aragorn is of age, his mother, Gilraen will give up her place as Regent of Gondor, leaving the Heir in the capable hands of Denethor the Steward. Before she steps down, the Queen performs one last official act. She sends word to Lothlorien reminding the Galadrim of their promise to protect the bloodline of Isildur. The Elves honor the pact by sending a mighty warrior to serve as Vigil to the Heir.

  
[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/baileymoyes/pic/00098c8c/) [ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/baileymoyes/pic/00099c7q/)   


  
[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/baileymoyes/pic/0009e2b7/) [ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/baileymoyes/pic/00091q1t/)   


Part Twenty-Three  
An LotR a/u rated: PG13  
Warning: Some violence.  
Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me.  
Thank you, Jean  
A/Notes: In this alternative Middle Earth, Elendil’s line continues to rule Gondor. The last king, Arathorn, died when his only heir was but two. Now that Prince Aragorn is of age, his mother, Gilraen will give up her place as Regent of Gondor, leaving the Heir in the capable hands of Denethor the Steward. Before she steps down, the Queen performs one last official act. She sends word to Lothlorien reminding the Galadrim of their promise to protect the bloodline of Isildur. The Elves honor the pact by sending a mighty warrior to serve as Vigil to the Heir.  
:::=+=:::o:::=+=:::o:::=+=:::o:::=+=:::  
  
  
The Umbaran raiders were in a hurry and didn’t spare time to see to the state of their captives. A cabin boy dropped a nearly empty skin of water through the hatch at one point, and the Vigil made the Steward drink all of it. The human would require every ounce of strength he could muster, and even then the Elf’s tenuous plan had little chance of freeing them both. However, it was a gamble that Legolas intended to take, not for the sake of Denethor, his family, or Gondor, but for the Vigil’s own peace of mind. His love for Aragorn had so changed him that he could not make callous choices any longer. All life was precious to him now, and if he did not do all in his power to save the Steward, he would live out his days in the shadow of gnawing guilt, forever wondering if his petty disdain for the man had led him to abandon Denethor.

“Will you put your fate in my hands for a small space of time?” the Vigil asked, as soon as it grew dark. “No one ever need know that you accepted my aid.”

“If you are speaking of escape, I am with you.”

“The Umbarans have no thought in them now but haste. There is a small chance that we can make it to the river.”

“How?” Even had Denethor’s expression not been visible to Elf-sight, Legolas would have heard the sneer in his voice.

In two abrupt motions, the Vigil brought his clenched fists together and then flung them wide apart. The iron chain broke like a stale bread crust leaving two short lengths hanging from the manacles around the Elf’s wrists. The Steward’s eyes widened and he flinched when Legolas leaned toward him. “I mean you no harm,” the Vigil said. “Let me free you.”

In a trice, Denethor had the use of his limbs and stood under his own power. He swayed on his feet, but did not ask for help, letting the Elf get about the business of opening the hatch. This Legolas accomplished by simply leaping upward, snapping the lock. The next jump sent the latticed hatch flying open, and the Vigil had a handhold on the rim. Exerting his strength and his will, Legolas pulled himself up one-handed and crouched on the deck. A quick look about revealed the commotion of a kicked anthill, and then the Elf reached down to Denethor. As easily as a Man draws a fish from the water, the Vigil lifted the Steward from the hold and set him on his feet. The Umbaran sailor at the wheel spotted them and called out to his comrades. Legolas shoved Denethor toward the rail and turned to chop his forearm across the throat of the first man to reach him. His back to the water, the Elf stood his ground and gave the Steward his chance to get off the ship. Denethor threw a skinny white leg over the railing and let gravity do its work. A dead Umbaran splashed into the water just behind Denethor, but the Steward was unaware of the near miss. He dove deep and kept kicking, getting as far away as possible before he ran out of breath. When he surfaced and looked back, he saw the Vigil dive from the rail as three Umbaran archers took aim. The slender arrows hissed into the water around the Elf, and then the current took Denethor in its teeth and ran with him like a dog with a stick.

:::::::::::::::::::::::

“I cannot command you,” Aragorn said to his gathered friends. “And I know you are weary, but I would have your help in finding my Vigil and my Steward.”

“Of course you may command us,” Faramir said. “Make your will known and it will be done, my liege.”

“Aye,” Boromir put a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “The pup speaks the truth. We are yours to command, sire.”

Arwen glanced at her brothers before speaking. “Our father honors the ancient alliance between Elves and Men and we look to you as our commander.”

“As do I,” Haldir said, his fist over his heart in token of his oath.

Queen Gilraen’s eyes glowed when she spoke these long-sighted words. “Aragorn, not since Isildur has any King of Gondor boasted such comrades. Your rule will be a golden age of friendship between the Races, and Men will find glory in song as well as the sword. I am very proud of you, my son.”

Aragorn went to one knee in front of Gilraen’s chair and took her hand between his. “I do not wish to leave you so soon, but…”

“But a good general cares about the least soldier under his command,” she finished for him. “This is what Denethor never understood. He was willing to sacrifice the sons of Gondor, not counting the cost of each life lost, looking only to some distant goal. If you would have advice of me, I would tell you to look to the future, but have a care where you set your feet in the present.”

“I leave the care of the White City in your hands until my return.” Aragorn kissed her knuckles and rose, turning to his small court. “My friends, will you ride with me this day?”

“Through gates of Mordor itself!” Boromir roared and those around him lifted their voices in echo of his battle cry.

“I hope we will not have to journey quite so far,” Aragorn could not help but smile at his Captain’s enthusiasm. “It is most likely that the Vigil is riding into the City at this moment with the Corsair King himself in chains, and will wonder why we thought he needed help.”

If no one else thought this likely, or that the Heir was putting on a brave face, they did not speak of it, but followed him to the stables and thence to the lowest circle of Minas Tirith, passing through the sorcery-blasted gate and onto the River Road.

::::::::::::::::::::::

Denethor trudged through the brush along the riverbank, his progress impeded at every step, but unwilling to leave the cover of the foliage until every Umbaran ship had passed out of sight in the other direction. His sodden, muddy robe was heavy, slapping his shins with each arduous step, but it protected against the whiplashes of the limber, green switches. However, it did nothing to keep the midges from feasting on his face and neck, and the backs of his hands. Waving vexedly at the nearly invisible pests, his foot slipped on mud and he was knee deep in the chill waters before he could catch his balance. Rather than climb back up, he waded against the current until he rounded a large, half-submerged log, hoping to rest in the relative calm provided by the natural dam. As he pulled himself along the fallen tree, hand over hand, he saw a bundle bobbing near the shore and in another blink, recognized the uniform of the Vigil. Fingers that shook with the cold hooked under Legolas’s armpits and dragged him laboriously out of the river and under the green hem of the shrubs. Denethor collapsed with the weight of the Elf across his thighs and lay exhausted, gasping for breath. With a monumental effort of will, the Steward sat up and did what he could to check the Vigil for injuries. He could find naught but bruises, and concluded that the lump on the Elf’s forehead accounted for Legolas’s unconsciousness. At that moment it occurred to him that he held the life of his rival in his hands. If he chose, he could place the Vigil back in the water, hold him under until life ceased, and none would be the wiser. Only he would know of the craven deed.

“It is not easily borne that I owe my life to one of the Sindar,” Denethor muttered. “I will do all in my power to see that you do not die, and thus will my debt be paid.”

Crawling from under the Elf, Denethor leaned over Legolas and loosened his clothing. A more thorough examination revealed no wounds, only old scars, but the creature did not wake. In his condition, Denethor could not carry, or drag, the Vigil back to Minas Tirith, and he was loath to leave him lying helpless, no matter how he felt about him. Steeling himself like man preparing to thrust his hands into flames, the Steward reached under the Elf’s tunic and chafed the skin of his chest, pressing down and rubbing hard. Legolas roused, though his eyes did not open, as a stream of river water poured from his mouth. The Vigil coughed, his lungs heaving, and Denethor sat back on his heels to prop the Elf on his side as more water dribbled between the blue-tinged lips. Legolas lifted a hand in a weak gesture and the sun struck sparks from the jewels of the ring of Barahir. The Steward’s eyes widened as he toppled onto his knees, his gaze fixed on the symbol of power.

“He set his ring upon your finger?” Denethor whispered in disbelief. “Does he place so much trust in you?”

The Vigil did not answer, and, hearing hoof beats, the Steward used the last of his strength to drag the Elf farther into the brush. Crouching over the Sindar’s prone body, Denethor peered out from the greenery as the horse drew near. He gave no sign of his presence as a dark Elf galloped by, heading toward the sea. Moments later, the rider returned at a slower pace, searching the ground on both sides of the track. Stopping in front of the Steward’s hiding place, the Elf sat still as stone in the saddle, questing with his eyes and ears and senses less ordinary.

“I mean you no harm,” the rider called softly. “I am Elrohir of Rivendell, son of Elrond Half-Elven, and I give you my word that you will not be hurt if you come forth.”

What is the word of an Elf worth? The bitter thought flashed through Denethor’s mind and then he remembered Prince Legolas’s steadfast loyalty to the Heir. Though Steward and Vigil had been at odds on almost every other point, on one they agreed whole-heartedly. Aragorn of Gondor must be protected at all costs, and in the commission of that duty, Denethor could not fault the Sindar prince.

“You could kill me from ambush,” Elrohir went on. “Will you not trust me so far as to show yourself? I am but an outrider of the king who follows close behind, and I tell you that he is a fair Man and just. If you be his subject, you will receive his bounty. If you be his enemy, you will receive mercy.”

Denethor rose slowly, drawing himself up to his full height. “I know you,” he said. “You are one of a pair that came to Minas Tirith with my younger son.”

Elrohir inclined his head to the Man. “Hail, Steward of the White City. Aragorn will be right glad to see you.”

“The Vigil is with me,” Denethor said, casting his eyes downward. “He seems unhurt, but he does not wake.”

Elrohir was out of the saddle and at the Steward’s side before the Man could blink. The Elf went to one knee beside Legolas and bent until his face was close to the Vigil’s. For a long moment, the Peredhel remained so, seeming to listen for something only he could hear.

“The Prince is in a healing trance,” Elrohir said as he straightened up. “And right glad will Aragorn be to see him as well.”

“Even more so, I would judge.” Denethor’s tone was dry.

“The Heir was most concerned for your safety,” said the son of Elrond. “He sent his Vigil to search for you.”

The Steward had naught to say to this, and it was not long before the company from Minas Tirith approached. Aragorn vaulted to the ground first, running almost before his boots touched down, flying to fling himself down beside the Vigil. His face white and tense with worry, the Heir took Legolas’s cold hand in his and bowed his head over it.

“He swallowed a goodly amount of the river,” Denethor spoke in the silence. “But I deem he will make full recovery.”

“Tis but a healing trance,” Elladan confirmed Elrohir’s words.

“I wish he would wake,” Aragorn said, in a voice that trembled. “I wish he would look into my eyes and give me surety that he is with me.”

“Call to him,” Arwen said, moving to stand between her brothers.

Aragorn gave her a swift glance before pressing Legolas’s hand to his breast. Laying his palm against the Elf’s bruised forehead, the Man closed his eyes and tried to feel his Vigil’s spirit. Silently, he called Legolas’s name, called him friend, brother, beloved, his prince of starlight, sovereign of his heart, his soul yearning toward its mate across the short but infinite distance that separated them. None who saw Aragorn’s face in that hour could hence doubt the love the Man felt for the Elf, and it seemed right to them that it be so for they could find nothing of evil in it, but only a sense of rightness that the world was in balance by at least this much.

Legolas opened his eyes with Aragorn’s name on his lips. A slow grin altered the lines of the Elf’s sculpted features like ice breaking in the Northern spring. He laughed when the Heir gathered him up and hugged him fiercely, ignoring the protest of cracked ribs as he returned the embrace. He was alive! Aragorn was alive! They had survived and found one another under Anor’s light. All the wide world and eternity to explore it were as nothing compared to having this Man in his arms. Not even the sea longing could compete with the need to be where Aragorn was. “Thank the Valar,” he breathed in the Man’s ear.

“And our valiant friends,” Aragorn answered. “Can you ride?”

“With you?” Legolas grinned again. “I would ride to the world’s end.”

“Roheryn can bear us both the short distance to the City,” Aragorn said, as he looked up and his gaze fell on the Steward. “My lord Denethor,” he said. “You have had my gratitude all my life for you did your best to see that I did not suffer for lack of a father, but the respect I feel for you at this moment cannot be described in words. I thank you for the care you gave my Vigil.”

Denethor bowed his head. “My liege,” he said. “I see now that the Vigil and I need not be at odds. We have a common goal, after all.”

“I am glad to hear you say it,” Aragorn smiled. “I would not like to do without either of you. Shall we ride back? The City is in the hands of my mother, and we will no doubt return to find that the citizens wish to keep her as their ruler.”

“Would that be a fate so dire?” Arwen chuckled.

“Nay, Lady,” Aragorn answered. “I would wish it so until the last star burnt out, but I fear me that the Queen will leave us.”

“Not forever,” Denethor said. “Your mother loves you, Aragorn. She will not be able to bear being parted from you for too long.”

“Thank you for that wisdom,” Aragorn said. “I perceive that you are not unharmed yourself, though you try to hide it. We will bear you swiftly to the Houses of Healing where you will bide until you may return to your office with all honor.”

Denethor bowed his head again. “Hail, Aragorn, Lord of the West,” he said solemnly. “To serve you is the highest honor I could ask.”

:::::::::::::::::::::

“My old counselor, friend of my youth, stalwart liege-man,” Gilraen greeted the Steward when next he woke in the Houses of Healing. “Your office has not been easy on you, has it?”

“My Lady!” Denethor sat up abruptly, his head spinning, his vision blurring, as he heard the voice of one he had desired in secret for decades.

“Rest, faithful servant of Gondor.” Gilraen came to the bedside and stood looking down at the man that had given his life, his love, and every waking moment to the dream of Minas Tirith in restored glory. “You need not speak, but only listen.”

The Steward looked rebellious, but did as she bade him. He was relatively unscathed, and only tarried here at the command of the king, regaining his strength before returning to duty. Denethor was restless, but much less contentious these days. If it were possible, he might have been said to be humbled by his treatment at the hands of the Umbarans.

“I have thought about it very carefully,” Gilraen said in a voice that carried no farther than Denethor’s bed. “The only one that could have given the Corsair King the details of my leave-taking is you. Not even the captain of my ship knew the hour we would sail until moments beforehand. You are the only one that had complete knowledge. Nay, do not speak until I have finished.” The Queen tilted her head slightly to one side in a mannerism that Denethor found indescribably attractive, but he felt no pleasure in it now. “I know why you did it,” she continued. “You wanted a war with Umbar for many reasons, some of which I am sure I would not understand. You were willing to sacrifice your queen, your own sons, and countless knights of Gondor. I wish only to know one thing. Was it worth it, Steward?” Gilraen paused. “You may speak now.”

“You were never in peril,” Denethor said quickly. “I had the word of my… co-conspirator that you would be treated as a royal guest.”

“So it was not your idea to drug me?”

“Gil, please!” The Steward’s regard for the Lady was so great that in his weakness, he lost his vaunted control. He struggled to rise so that he might kneel at her feet, but she urged him gently back down to the bed.

“You mistake me,” she said. “I am not going to tell Aragorn. He has had enough strife in his life and I do not wish to him suffer the blow of your betrayal, especially not now when he has found his confidence. I will not let your blind treachery undermine all the good you have done. For my son’s sake, I will keep your secret, but you cannot be allowed to continue to steer the helm of Gondor’s fate. You will retire in favor of your younger son whom I deem more than worthy to take up the Steward’s mantle.”

Denethor drew in a great breath to debate her, but let it out as a long sigh. “I suppose I have no choice really. I will retire, but you must understand that I believed that I was doing what was best for Gondor and for the Heir.”

“And do you still believe that?”

He could not meet her eyes as he answered. “No, I do not.”

Gilraen rose and touched the back of his hand. “It will be hard for you to leave the ruling of the kingdom to others. I recommend that you travel a bit. How long since you went beyond the walls of Minas Tirith?”

“I do not know.” Denethor stared into the middle distance as the Queen crossed the room to the door. As she pulled it open, he spoke again. “Thank you, my lady,” he said.

“You are a lucky man, Denethor,” she said as she left. “Do not waste this second chance.”

:::::::::::::::::::::

Aragorn was not surprised when his Steward asked to see him, but the Heir was shocked when Denethor resigned his office. The king progressed to astonishment when Denethor proposed Faramir as a suitable candidate to take up the reins.

“And where is the Vigil?” Denethor asked, seeking to stem the flood of Aragorn’s questions.

“Legolas is in the courtyard with the sons of Elrond,” Aragorn answered. “They will return soon to their father’s House and that will be a sad leave-taking.”

“Indeed, but surely they will stay for your coronation?”

“Coronation?”

“You are a King, Aragorn. None could dispute it, and if any try, they will swiftly find themselves facing the swords of your friends. There is no need to wait any longer to place the crown on your head and the scepter in your hand.”

“It will be good to put down my sword,” Aragorn said.

“Aragorn, I am sorry that…” Denethor began, before changing his thoughts. “No matter, you do not need me any longer. You have learned the lessons of kingship well, and you do honor to the bloodline of Elendil. I was harsh with you, but I could not afford to be soft. Perhaps, if I had it to do again, I might…”

“I will not hear it,” Aragorn said. “If you would do the will of your liege, I would have you stay for a year at least, until Faramir has his feet under him. Then, if it is still your wish to step down, I will not gainsay you.”

“As you command, sire,” Denethor bowed his head.

“And what will you do? Afterward?”

“I have a recent yearning to see more of Gondor, to travel all the way to the lost realm of Arnor, perhaps even farther north, but I am getting ahead of myself. First, I will recover. Second, I will see you crowned. Third, I will prepare Faramir for his duties, and then I will give thought to my journey. Go now for I sense you are eager to be with your comrades, not shut in here with an old man.”

“Thank you, my Lord Steward,” Aragorn bowed and gladly took his leave to join his friends in the courtyard.

“What odious task does my father bid us accomplish?” Faramir asked. “Are the stables over-flowing with manure? Is there a ship with a bilge to be emptied?”

“He bids you help me to rule Gondor when he is gone,” Aragorn answered off-handedly. Faramir’s jaw dropped so quickly that his companions laughed, as the Heir went on. “He also bids all of you to attend my coronation. No more news do I have just now.”

The Vigil smiled faintly at his charge’s notion of humor. Clapping a gloved hand to Aragorn’s shoulder, the Elf raised his voice. “Hail Aragorn, son of Arathorn of the line of Elendil of Numenor, Lord of the West!”

Aragorn’s face mirrored pleasure mingled with embarrassment as he placed his hand over the Elf’s. His expression turned to puzzlement as he grasped Legolas’s fingers and examined them. “Where is the ring?” he asked.

“It came off in the river,” the Vigil said.

“And you did not think to mention it?”

“I lost the sword as well.”

Aragorn shook his head. “That is not the point. If you are not wearing the Vigil’s ring…” he stopped in mid-sentence. “You are bound by no spell. You stay because you wish to.”

“Because this is where I belong. My place is beside you, now and to the ending of the world.”

“But mine will end first,” Aragorn said softly. “And you will live a long time after.”

Legolas shook his head. “So long as I live, you memory will be ever green and you will never truly leave this world. But I do not wish to speak words of doom while the Sun shines and we have a City to rebuild.”

“Hear my beloved,” Aragorn looked around the circle of his comrades. “He puts duty before his pleasure. Shall we do the same?”

Elladan put a hand over his brother’s mouth before Elrohir could answer and the company left that place and went singing into the City to join a grateful people in their labors.

tbc


	24. baileymoyes — LiveJournal

  
[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/baileymoyes/pic/00046r5f/)

**Part Twenty-Four**   


An LotR a/u rated:NC17  
Warning:graphic Man/Elf smex.  
Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me.  
Thank you, Jean, and thanks to Tien for the exquisite image.  
A/N: In this alternative Middle Earth, Elendil’s line continues to rule Gondor. The last king, Arathorn, died when his only heir was but two. Now that Prince Aragorn is of age, his mother, Gilraen wishes to give up her place as Regent of Gondor, leaving the Heir of Isildur in the capable hands of Denethor the Steward. Before she steps down, the Queen performs one last official act. She sends word to Lothlorien reminding the Galadrim of their promise to protect the bloodline of Elendil. The Elves honor the pact by sending a mighty warrior to serve as Vigil.  
:::=+=:::o:::=+=:::o:::=+=:::o:::=+=:::  


Legolas leaned out the window, watching the bright banners ripple and snap atop the towers, no brighter than the festival garb of the crowds that flowed through the streets of Minas Tirith. Strong arms wrapped around his waist from behind, warming his back and his loins. Though he had found joy with Aragorn just moments ago, the urge to join with the Man was powerful. Only the knowledge that he had leave to taste this sweetness whenever he chose kept him from turning and carrying the Heir back to their bed. In languid patience, the Elf gazed down on the White City decked out for a royal wedding.

“Your people seem most glad that you are their king,” Mirkwood’s prince remarked.

“Our people, my love,” Aragorn murmured in an upswept ear.

Legolas did not dispute him. Indeed, there were a fair number of Elves among the masses gathered to share this joyous occasion. Elves from Rivendell, from Lothlorien and from the kingdom of Mirkwood mingled with Men of Gondor, of Rohan, and almost every other region of Middle Earth, including emissaries from the East. Though they sent no representatives, even the Dwarf nation recognized the nuptials with a sumptuous gift of mithril and gems. A year and some months since the ending of the war sparked by the kidnapping of Gondor’s Queen and the realm was at peace on all its borders, counting neighbors as allies now and enemies no longer. “It is very pleasant here,” the Vigil sighed.

Aragorn smiled, his new-grown beard tickling the Elf’s neck. “Why does ‘pleasant’ sound like ‘boring’ on your lips?”

“I am not a scholar like you,” Legolas replied. “I merely say what I am thinking without wondering why I am saying it.”

“I had noticed,” the king said dryly. “All who meet you notice this quality.”

“Do I shame you often?” The Elf pressed his backside more firmly against the Man’s groin to show he was teasing.

“Constantly,” Aragorn fell in with his lover’s mood. “My counselors berate me endlessly. Why can you not find a suitable princess to wed? Why do you take a wild Wood Elf to your bed?”

“You are rhyming, Aragorn,” Legolas interrupted with delight, turning in the circle of the Man’s arms.

“Not intentionally,” the king’s smile broadened. “You made a warrior of me and now you make me a poet.”

“Do not lay the blame at my feet. I was under a spell of compulsion.”

Aragorn chuckled, his eyes straying to the sword on the far wall of the bedchamber. A fisherman hauling up a catch from the Anduin had found Aiglosithil, the blade forged as a gift from Gil-galad to Elendil, but the ensorcelled ring that was its mate never came to light. It was a jest now between Man and Elf that they had been compelled to fall in love and were making the best of a bad bargain. “Do not dream that I will release you from my thrall,” Aragorn said. “I have grown used to your haughty ways and you keep my feet warm at night.”

Legolas laughed softly, reclaiming the Man’s attention. Their eyes met and fired, worlds colliding in a hidden explosion revealed in their shining gazes. The Elf’s head dipped toward the king’s and Aragorn’s lips parted in anticipation. Neither was pleased to hear a knock at the door, but they moved apart to swiftly don dressing gowns.

The Steward entered at Aragorn’s invitation and lifted a droll eyebrow. “Still abed? The wedding is in less than two hours time. It will take that long to get you into your regalia.”

Aragorn grimaced. “The formal clothing will be bad enough without adding several pounds of precious jewels. However, I wish to do all honor to the bride.”

Faramir glanced at the Elf and they smiled the same smile. “The bride would not care if you attended as you are,” was the Steward’s opinion. “But you represent Gondor in this and you must make a brave show.”

“As must my Vigil who will stand at my side.”

Legolas looked at the finery laid ready for him to wear. “My uniform would be more suitable,” he said.

Faramir shook his head. “You shall not escape, Prince. Presiding over this wedding will be my father’s last official act and you know his opinion of that ‘scandalous apparel’.” The young man paused. “Ah, you are joking with me. Let me warn you then that I am responsible for the smooth running of today’s festivities and at this point I no longer have a sense of humor about it.”

Legolas gave Faramir’s shoulder a quick squeeze and went to dress himself in the black and silver of Aragorn’s livery rendered in the richest fabrics by Elvish weavers. Elegant and ornate, the ensemble draped like water, weighed no more than a breath, and flowed gracefully with each small movement. Aragorn watched for a few moments, before following the Elf’s example, signing to Faramir to stay.

“We have broached this subject at whiles,” the king said, “but I wish to speak of it frankly before the wedding.”

“I await your pleasure, sire,” Faramir inclined his head, as he opened the chest that contained the crown jewels.

“Though I have long wished to name Boromir my heir, we have had doubts of his fitness to rule Gondor. Even with you at his side, his headstrong nature would likely send the nation to war again in time.”

“But you have changed your mind?”

“Aye,” Aragorn held still so Faramir could fasten his sash with a gem-encrusted brooch. “It will work thus. You will make an ally of Arwen. You have the love of her brothers and she already looks kindly on you. Together, you would be more than a match for Boromir, even in one of his tempers.”

“The Lady has had some success in curbing Boromir’s tendency to solve all problems with a sword,” Faramir said.

Aragorn nodded. “And none love Gondor more than Boromir, or is more protective of her honor. Woe betide the foreign envoy that offers insult to our nation.”

“I take your point, sire,” Faramir shuddered. “It would not do to have blood spilled in the royal audience chamber. But as we have said many times, Boromir may never have to sit on the throne, and certainly not anytime soon.” The Steward looked carefully at Aragorn’s face. “Unless I have missed something.”

“It is not you,” Aragorn said. “I find I miss the excitement of being abroad with Legolas. My coronation was hardly more than a year ago, but it seems a decade.”

Faramir smiled, his gaze flicking to the Elf at the window and back to Aragorn. “It is perfectly normal for a monarch to take a holiday,” he said. “And I think that between us, Lady Arwen, Boromir and myself might be able to take your place for a while.”

“You are a true comrade.” Aragorn embraced Faramir warmly before releasing him. “Legolas, are you ready?”

The Vigil turned and both Men were astonished anew by Elvish beauty. Legolas had braided his hair to better match his formal garb and he needed no other crown to look every inch a prince. He stared back at the other two in inquiry, wondering what fascinated them so. “Have I done something rude again?”

Aragorn and Faramir both shook their heads. “We should go,” the Steward said. “I can hear the bells.”

The king held out his hand and the Elf came to his side, never straying through the long day, and into the night. They witnessed the formal union of Arwen Undomiel, daughter of Lord Elrond of Rivendell to Boromir, son of Denethor, former Steward of Gondor and joined the crowd in rejoicing. There was music and dancing in every public place, every home and in the streets where those of disparate Races put aside their differences in favor of celebrating a common joy. In a brief exchange, Aragorn informed Boromir and his bride of his decision and sent them off to begin their life together. The revelry in the royal palace went on until almost dawn when the last of the guests wandered reluctantly away to seek their beds. The host and a handful of his closest friends had one last toast to the newly wedded couple.

“I wish my mother could have made the journey,” Aragorn said, setting his goblet down.

“When I visit on my way north, I shall be sure and describe the wedding to her in detail,” Denethor said. “And now, it is time I was abed.” The former Steward left to a chorus of good wishes for his journey and now there were five lingering on the dais.

“I am remembering our journey to the halls of the Goblin King,” Elrohir nudged Legolas.

The Vigil cocked his head to the side as he regarded the other Elf, clearly waiting for Elrohir to continue.

“It was a mighty deed,” the Peredhel said. “We were but three and we fought our way to the throne room itself, and you slew their chief and brought his head back to Mirkwood to lay at your sire’s feet.”

“It does seem foolish in hindsight,” Legolas admitted.

Elladan grinned. “You remind me of your father just now.”

“If you become insulting, I will reply in kind.”

Aragorn chuckled, exchanging a glance with Faramir. “Elves,” he said. “You remember how it was always my desire to meet some of the Galadrim and speak with them? I had a far different notion of how Elves converse, imagining them to talk only of the highest matters and in verse, of course. I thank the Valar for sending me a Vigil to educate me.”

Legolas turned from his erstwhile hunting companions at the sound of his title. “And your learning is far from complete,” he said.

“Then I submit myself to your instruction for as long as it shall take,” Aragorn moved closer to his Elf. “I was very glad to be able to meet with Lord Elrond. He spoke to me as a father, with praise and advice, and gave me much to think on.”

“That sounds like father,” Elrohir said.

Elladan smiled as he slipped an arm around his brother’s shoulders and the other around Faramir’s waist. “If there is to be more talk of fathers, I think we should leave it to our fair friend and his beloved. Now who will accompany me into my dreams?”

“Have I your leave, sire?” Faramir looked to Aragorn.

“With all my heart,” the king answered.

And then there were two.

“What say you to all this talk of fathers?” Aragorn asked casually.

Legolas took hold of the Man and pulled him down to sit, both in one large chair. “I would rather retire to our bedchamber and do as our friends are doing.”

Aragorn began to unpick the Elf’s coronal braids as he spoke softly. “Elven passion was a revelation for me,” he said. “It is still strange to me that such ethereal seeming creatures are of the same flesh and blood as I with the same desires.”

“But we live longer and garner more wisdom.”

I cannot dispute it,” Aragorn kissed the part in Legolas’s hair. “I thank you for sharing yours with me.”

Legolas shifted so he could look into the Man’s eyes. “Do you wish to tell me now?”

Aragorn raised both brows. “Tell you?”

“You have been keeping a secret.”

“It is more of a…” Aragorn’s words were interrupted by a sharp intake of breath. “Cease, wicked Sindar, or we will soon be coupling on this dais.”

“I have taken you in less comfortable surroundings.”

Aragorn chuckled warmly. “I can always count on you for the truth. Here is my wish then. I want to put aside the rule of Gondor for a time while I travel through the kingdom and learn more about the lands and folk in my care.”

“You will need a guide and protector.”

“I already have a Vigil,” Aragorn stroked a silken cheek with his thumb. “And I would like to begin my journey with a visit to his father’s court.”

There was a brief silence that Aragorn measured in heartbeats as Legolas gazed into the middle distance. The Man felt the moment when the Elf decided as the Vigil relaxed in his arms. “If you wish it,” Legolas said, a slow smile curving his lips.

“I do,” Aragorn nuzzled a lobeless ear. “I wish to ask him for your hand.”

A peal of Elvish laughter rang against the vaulted ceiling before it was muffled by a kiss. The kiss was returned with enthusiasm, Legolas wrapping himself around Aragorn in a fierce embrace. When their lips parted, the king pulled his Vigil to his feet and out of the room. Elf and Man made use of every shadow and alcove between the banquet hall and the royal chambers to exchange furtive, heated caresses that had both breathless by the time they shut the door on their sanctum.

The Elf swept the Man into his arms and into their bed, taking his mouth in a kiss full of the promise of pleasure to come. Heat rose in Aragorn’s groin, melting his bones and setting his blood afire. Legolas untied the brocade sash that belted the Man’s tunic and let it fall to the floor. Lifting the hem of the garment, he slid his hands up the warm skin, taking a nipple between his thumb and forefinger. Aragorn’s gasp was loud in the silence as a bolt of dulcet lightning shot from the pinched bud to his groin, setting the his entire body alight. Legolas yanked the formal tunic over his lover’s head and took the stiff pink nub between his teeth. Flicking his tongue over the tip of the sensitive flesh, the Vigil drew another moan from his ward. Sucking and nibbling at each nipple in turn, Legolas worked his hand beneath the finely woven leggings as his lover fondled him in turn. Aragorn gave a short, sharp cry as the Elf’s fingers closed on his hard length and squeezed gently. Slowly stroking the hot, silken flesh, Legolas claimed Aragorn’s mouth again. Aragorn moaned, welcoming the sense of abandonment as he let go of his hard-won, carefully maintained sense of control, giving it over to the Elf, free for a space of time.

Legolas felt the Man’s surrender and it gladdened his heart. Taking the offered mouth, the Elf plumbed the wet velvet depths and a thrill ran the length of his spine when the Man reciprocated. Aragorn groaned into the Elf’s mouth as a callused fingertip stroked his cleft, circling his entrance, nudging delicately. Bringing his hand to his mouth, the Vigil wet his fingers and resumed his fondling. When he prodded the small opening this time, Aragorn pushed back against the pressure. The slick digit eased into the tight passage and stopped at the second knuckle, lingering on a particularly sensitive patch of flesh in Aragorn’s sheath as the Elf reached for the oil with his other hand. Legolas anointed his fingers quickly found the Man’s pleasure center again, exploiting it relentlessly, rubbing small circles in Aragorn’s passage while he trailed his fingers up the underside of the king’s leaking shaft.

Legolas poured more oil on his arousal and brought it up to Aragorn’s crotch. The Man lifted his head and watched as the thick rod approached his glistening opening, but entry was delayed. Legolas ran the head of his shaft up the crack of Aragorn’s ass and over the velvet balls until it slid against the Man’s arousal. Aragorn groaned as the Elf took both rods in one hand and pumped them languidly together. Leaning in, Legolas nipped at his lover’s nipples and pressed insistently against his sweet spot.

“I am going to spurt,” Aragorn warned.

“You are always quick the first time,” Legolas said equably.

Aragorn came with a small cry of pleasure, a thick stream jetting from the tip of his handsome cock to spatter against the Elf’s exquisitely embroidered tabard. Releasing the sated shaft, Legolas let his cock slide back down to Aragorn’s entrance. Gripping the base firmly, the Elf pushed the blunt head through the tight ring of muscle at the entrance to the narrow passage. Aragorn’s breath hissed in over his teeth as the long length of flesh slid in, dragging against his prostate. Legolas gasped in ecstasy as the contracting sheath hugged his aching arousal. Slowly, shallowly, he began to thrust.

Aragorn’s pleasure did not end with the spilling of his seed. The Elf continued to fondle him, nuzzling his neck, gently tweaking his tingling nipples, and tenderly stroking his contented cock, that stiffened again under the ardent touch. A pleased smile lit the Elf’s beautiful face as he maintained the speed and depth of his thrusts until the Man’s rod stood up from its nest of sable curls. Steadily, Legolas rocked his hardness into the oiled channel, dragging against Aragorn’s sweet spot coming and going, stroking the yearning length sliding against the Man’s taut belly. The Vigil pushed the king’s thigh back with his other hand and thrust deeply. Aragorn came again with a choked cry, spilling a small amount of seed over the Sindar’s fingers.

Legolas leaned forward until his balls touched the Man’s buttocks and thrust in a series of short, rolling strokes. Aragorn shook his head from side to side, his loose hair trailing across his face as the Elf pushed into him. Thumbs rubbing circles on the Man’s soft inner thighs, Legolas held the well-muscled legs wide open as he withdrew to the brink and paused. Aragorn’s opening flexed on the tip of the Elf’s shaft and Legolas showed his pleasure in a merry laugh. When the Vigil resumed his stroke, the king bore down on the hard length as though seeking to keep it out. Legolas bit his lip at the sublime sensation and his shaft abruptly gave up its seed, his climax rolling through him like the wave that drowned Numenor. His knees trembled and Aragorn gathered him into his arms. Gratefully, Legolas laid his head on the Man’s sweat-dewed chest, licking at the salty pearls. His softening cock stirred in response to the tongue that traced the whorls of his ear and Aragorn groaned deep in his chest. Legolas moved his hips subtly and the Man held him tighter.

“Softly,” Aragorn murmured. “I have not the endurance of a Dwarf.”

“But you own much of that Race’s stubbornness,” Legolas pulled gently at the king’s new beard. “And you are becoming hairier each day.”

“That progression is not likely to reverse.”

“Good,” the Elf stirred the halo of hair around Aragorn’s left nipple. “I like the ways that we are different.” His hand slid lower to cup the Man’s cock and balls. “And I like the ways that we are the same.”

Aragorn played a silent melody with the Elf’s hair as harp strings. “I could not say it better. Since you have become so able in speech, I have decided to appoint you to a new post. When we travel to Mirkwood, you will go as my ambassador to the royal court.”

Legolas saw the Man’s kindness in the appointment, giving the Elf a diplomat’s status so he had an official reason for speaking to his father. “You are wise for one so young,” he murmured, easing his softening length from Aragorn’s sheath. “But your schemes are transparent to me.”

“I did not mean to…”

“You mean to care for me because you love me more than your honor. My life means more to you than your own. If my heart were sore, yours would bleed. Know you how I know these things, Man? Because this is how I love you and our love is one love.”

“I think you will be a very good ambassador,” Aragorn said in a voice thick with emotion.

The Vigil settled against the King’s side, an arm stretched protectively and possessively across Aragorn’s chest, as they drifted into sleep. “We will see,” he answered.

tbc


	25. baileymoyes — LiveJournal

  
[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/baileymoyes/pic/000pa247/)   
**The Vigil - Epilogue**   


  


The Vigil – Epilogue

Thranduil looked up as his chamberlain entered.  
“The Lord and Lady of Lothlorien and Lord Elrond of Rivendell are waiting in the audience chamber.”  
The King of Mirkwood settled his mithril coronet more comfortably on his brow and nodded to the door warden. As the gold-embroidered hangings were drawn back, Thranduil paced forward and stopped in front of his throne. Though the great hall was hung with celebratory garlands, it was empty except for his fellow rulers. Not until Gondor’s emissary to Elvendom arrived at the palace would the court assemble to do him honor.  
“So here we are again,” Thranduil said, setting an informal tone.  
Galadriel smiled at Mirkwood’s monarch. “Seven seasons ago we gathered in this chamber to choose a Vigil for Isildur’s Heir.”  
“Forgive me, Lady,” Thranduil said. “But was it not you who chose?”  
“And right well,” Elrond spoke up.  
“Prince Legolas fulfilled the promise made to Elendil, doing honor to his lineage and reforging the bond between the Galadrim and the Edain. He achieved mighty deeds and ensured the safety of he who now rules in Minas Tirith. I have long admired the tales of the Tracker Prince from a distance, and I am proud that I had the chance to fight beside him and see the truth behind the legends.” Haldir made an elegant bow and stepped back to stand at Galadriel’s shoulder.  
“We are not here to speak of Prince Legolas,” Thranduil said. “I would like to know more about this Ambassador to Elvendom as he is styled.”  
“He’s called Eärenandros,” Celeborn said. “Not a common Adunaic name and he also bears an honorific in Quenya: Numentuilë.”  
“Spring of the West,” Galadriel murmured. “A hopeful title.”  
“Yes, I read the puffery announcing this emissary’s visit. Men love titles.”  
“Yet it was we that began the naming of things,” Galadriel said. “Come, Thranduil, let this be a joyous occasion to celebrate all that we have in common. Do not dwell on that which makes us different. It should stir our interest, not our suspicion.”  
“Much good has come of sending a Vigil to Gondor.” Elrond ignored Thranduil’s implicit ban on the subject of Prince Legolas. “The alliance of Rangers and Trackers has rid the borders of Orcs and stopped their depredations into our lands.”  
“Yes, yes,” Thranduil waved a hand, the wide golden bands on his arm winking in the sunlight. “Men are good at killing. This we all know.”  
Before Elrond could reply, his steward entered. “My Lady and Lords,” Glorfindel said. “Gondor’s ambassador is nigh. I rode with his retinue for half a league and found him to be very… courteous as well as punctual. You may convene your court, if that is your will.”  
Thranduil signaled to his chamberlain and soon the hall was thronged. Despite the breeze through the archways, the air was freighted with curiosity. It had been long since any King of Gondor had cared to treat with the Galadrim, and the gathered Elves were very interested to see the Man that Aragorn II had chosen to send. Glorfindel took his position just behind Lord Elrond in the extraordinary grouping of dignitaries on the dais, and leaned forward to speak in a whisper.  
“Did you know, my lord?”  
Elrond raised one brow at this cryptic speech, half-turning to his steward, but Thranduil’s door warden announced the arrival of the envoy. As soon as the ambassador entered, Elrond’s curiosity was satisfied. “Aragorn is a very wise young man,” he murmured. “And my daughter has learned to keep a secret it seems.”  
Thranduil rose from his throne and stared at the emissary. “Why are you here?” he said finally. “Where is Gondor’s ambassador?”  
“Greetings, Sire,” Legolas said. “I bring messages of friendship from the Lord of the West.”  
Thranduil sat down again, regaining some aplomb. “I greet the representative of Gondor’s King,” he said. “Be welcome to this court and forgive my surprise. I did not expect that you would be… Sindarin.”  
Legolas’s lips curved up in smile. “No, I am sure you did not. Will you not embrace me, father?”  
The King of Mirkwood could not have looked more thunderstruck if the King of the Dwarves had appeared, promising undying love and half his wealth. When the first shock wore off, he sprang from his high seat and came to meet his son half way. They embraced in the manner of the Elves, but for somewhat longer than customary. When Legolas drew back, he was touched beyond measure by the unguarded look on his father’s face.  
“When the pleasantries are dispensed with,” he said softly, “I would desire to speak with you alone.”  
“It is my desire also. Long have I let pride seal my lips.”  
“I am afflicted with the same glue.”  
“You have changed, my son.”  
“Yes,” Legolas agreed.  
Pulling his father with him, Gondor’s ambassador mounted the dais to greet formally the leaders of Elvendom. Each saw the wisdom and the humor in Aragorn’s choice and was content to wait and see what sort of intermediary the Prince would make. Legolas was presented to the court in his new role and then Thranduil proclaimed that the solemnities were done and the festivities could begin. As the court and Legolas’s entourage left the hall, the King of Mirkwood turned to his fellow sovereigns.  
“If it pleases you,” he said. “I wish a few moments alone with my son.”  
Graciously, the others withdrew and left Legolas and Thranduil in privacy. The two stood in silence for a long moment before the King gestured to the open gallery that ran along the west side of the hall. Father and son walked out into the sunlight and paused to appreciate the beauty of the terraced gardens that fell away from the path to the edge of the trees.  
“If I tried to keep you close, I feared I would drive you away,” Thranduil said abruptly.  
Legolas absorbed this as he gazed on the leaves, orange, yellow and red, falling like the scales of a molting dragon. “I gave you no reason to think I wanted to stay,” he said at last.  
Thranduil had been expecting a bitter jab, but Legolas’ response to his honesty encouraged him to continue in this vein. “I wish I had seen how deeply you were hurt before it was too late to bind the wound.”  
“I never let you see my pain. It was a point of pride with me.”  
“Was?”  
“Aye, Sire. I came here prepared to carry on with our old, cold combat, but I find I no longer have the heart for it, or say rather that I have too much heart.”  
Thranduil met Legolas’ eyes squarely. “I loved your mother more than my immortal life. When she faded, I could not accept that she had been taken without my permission. I desired to control all around me so that such a thing could never happen again. In putting aside my grief in favor of wrath, I denied you the comfort of sharing your sorrow, but never believe that I did not grieve.”  
“You took a consort again so quickly,” Legolas could not refrain from saying.  
“I did.” Thranduil bowed his ruddy-gold head. “So my people would have a queen, so my children would have a mother, so that the space at my side would not be empty. I was hasty, true, but I was not myself at that time. Later, my pride would not let me admit that I had made a terrible mistake.”  
“And I would not have listened if you had tried to explain.”  
“Legolas, the first fault was mine.”  
“But it was not the only one. It shames me now to recall how rude I was to Lady Oresilme when she tried to be kind to me.”  
“You were but a youngling.”  
“That can no longer excuse me.”  
“Dare I hope that you will forgive me?”  
Legolas dropped his head, ivory braids sliding against smooth cheeks, staring unseeing at the ground between his boots. He searched his heart and found that it no longer held any anger for his father. It had been replaced by sympathy for a loss that mirrored his own. When he looked up again into Thranduil’s hopeful blue-green gaze, Legolas had the curious sense that at that moment, he was somehow older than his father was. “If you will forgive me,” he said softly.  
Thranduil embraced his son for the second time in an hour. “Thank you.”  
“If you wish to thank someone, thank the King of Gondor,” Legolas chuckled as he blinked back tears.  
“When I see him, I shall.” Thranduil responded to his son’s sudden lightness of mood.  
“He waits in my quarters if you wish to do so now.”  
Thranduil shook his head. “Have you any more surprises for me? Have you brought a trained warg with you or a bride perhaps?”  
Legolas smiled and beckoned to the King to follow.  
::::::::::::::::::::::  
Thranduil stood beside his son and gazed down on the Heir of Isildur as Aragorn paced the lawn beside Legolas’s quarters, hands clasped at the small of his back, his forehead furrowed in thought.  
“He is so young,” the King said.  
“In years,” Legolas agreed.  
“But why would he send his ambassador if he was coming himself?”  
“Because he wished to speak with you, but he did not wish to make a state visit of it.”  
“So all this pomp was a screen for a private talk?”  
“Of course not, father, but he is not one to waste an opportunity. You have been warned.”  
Thranduil gave Legolas a puzzled look that was ignored. The Prince of Mirkwood called out to the King of Gondor to join them and Aragorn bounded up the tiers of moss-bordered grass. Mirkwood’s King watched quizzically as the coltish human came to a stop in front of him and extended his sword arm. After a hesitation almost too small to be measured, Thranduil clasped Aragorn’s forearm in a warrior’s salute. The Lord of the West did not bow to the King of the Woodland Realm, nor did he require that the Elf bow to him. Thranduil had to admire the choice of greeting, which put them on an equal basis as commanders and reminding him that Elves and Men had fought together to rid Mirkwood of Orcs.  
“Your Majesty,” Aragorn said. “Long have I desired to meet you.”  
“I had not thought to hear those words from the mouth of a Man.”  
“Middle-Earth is changing, my lord, and those that do not change with it will be left behind. Do you not agree?”  
Thranduil glanced at Legolas.  
“I must see to my retinue,” the Prince said. “I will return before long.”  
The King of Mirkwood watched his son walk quickly away.  
“If he says he will return, you may wager your life that he will,” Aragorn said.  
“You know him well then.”  
“Please, my lord, let us not spar for his heart. It is large enough for us both.”  
“I never thought I would need instruction from a Man, but as you have said, change is in the air. Perhaps it will come to pass that Anor will shine in the night as well as day, that the Anduin will flow backward in its bed, and Dwarves will sit in honor at my table. Who can say? To me this is the greatest wonder: that my best beloved son has returned to me and I must thank a mortal for it.”  
“I do not need, nor do I wish any thanks, your majesty. Whatever I have done was done for love.”  
“You speak of love?”  
It took all of Aragorn’s courage to meet the King’s eyes and say the next words. “I do for I love your son more than I can say and I wish to make formal bond with him.” The Lord of the Hosts of the West took a deep breath and continued. “I have journeyed to Mirkwood to ask your blessing on our union.”  
There was a long silence from the King in which Aragorn became aware of the calling of the birds, the rustle of the wind through the leaves and the underlying hum of insects. Gondor’s ruler was beginning to think that Thranduil would not deign to speak, when the Elf cleared his throat.  
“Of all the things I might have imagined you saying to me… asking for my son’s hand was not among them.” Thranduil smiled faintly. “Aside from any objections I might raise, will your people accept a consort of the Eldar?”  
“If I had chosen Lady Arwen of Rivendell, I think they would have approved the match.” Aragorn smiled, and the sunlight picked premature splinters of silver from the beard he was growing. “However, I do not think their tolerance will stretch to my choice of a male consort.”  
“I had not heard that Men frowned overmuch on this.”  
Aragorn’s shy smile broadened to a grin. “They would wink at a clandestine arrangement, as indeed they do already, but they wish to know that my bloodline will continue.”  
“Ah, of course, the eternal need for an heir. How will you meet it?”  
“I cannot see all the endings of my decisions, but I think I shall not have an heir of my body.”  
“I hope Galadriel appreciates the irony of preserving Elendil’s lineage only to have you can end it.”  
“I hope that too. I know that my choice will not be understood by all, but I can make no other and remain Aragorn. If I made the cold decision to put Legolas aside and agreed to a state wedding simply so that Gondor may be ruled by my get when I am gone…” Aragorn’s voice trailed off for a moment, but when he spoke again, his tone was firm. “It would change me and the people of Gondor deserve a better ruler than the one I would become.”  
“So you have made your choice with your head as well as your heart.”  
“It has ever been my way to question my desires.”  
In that simple statement, Thranduil was given a window into the nature of this human. “You are the first of your Race in a very long time who truly knows what it is to be humble. You amaze me, young mortal and I will suspend my judgment of you until I know you better. For now, if Legolas has chosen you, then you have my blessing.”  
“Thank you, sire.” Aragorn’s voice shook with restrained emotion as he bowed to the Elf. “You have my promise that I will love and care for Legolas as he deserves.”  
Thranduil leaned forward and lowered his voice. “You are aware of his willfulness?”  
Grateful for the King of Mirkwood’s light tone, the King of Gondor answered in kind. “I have noticed that he can be headstrong… from time to time.”  
“I have heard that you are a scholar.”  
“If I had my way and time enough, I would read every book ever penned.”  
“I have never thought of Men as great seekers of lore, but perhaps there is more to Men than I have learned.”  
“You are very gracious. May I ask another favor?”  
“I have given you my most precious possession. What else would you have of me?”  
“I wish to be bound to Legolas here where he was born.”  
“That is a boon easily and gladly granted. Naught else?”  
“The friendship of Mirkwood for Gondor in an alliance of our nations.”  
“Consider it a dowry.” Thranduil raised a fox-colored eyebrow. “I see why my son warned me of you.”  
“Your majesty, it is my wish that someday all the Free Peoples of Middle Earth shall be united in peace.”  
“Then let it begin here.”  
:::::::::::::::::::::::  
Aragorn lay back against the bank and stared into the golden canopy of the turning leaves. In the twilight, Legolas’s skin was almost luminous against the deep green of the velvet moss. The Vigil was gloriously naked, sprawled artlessly over the ground and the king in the aftermath of his first bonded coupling. Though Aragorn and Legolas had felt wedded for some time, the ceremony celebrated with their comrades and kin had deepened the bond that already existed between them. Though nothing had changed, everything was different now that they were joined in the eyes of all who knew them.  
“Are you cold?” Legolas asked.  
Aragorn smiled. “You know I am not as well as you know why I have covered myself with my cloak.”  
“Mannish modesty,” the Elf said. “I shall never understand it. Your body is very comely, Estel.”  
The king shivered as Legolas ran a callused hand down his flank. “I am glad you find it so.”  
“I have told you; I like the ways we are different, and the ways we are the same,” the prince said as he found Aragorn’s shaft beneath the cloak.  
Aragorn gasped as nimble fingers caressed him, stroking his manhood, squeezing his sack and delving into the moist cleft below. A finger slid easily into a port still stretched and slippery from recent activity and the king moaned softly. “Mercy, wicked Sindar. Give me but a few more moments to recover and I will do my best to satisfy you.”  
Legolas settled alongside Aragorn and pulled the man into his arms. “A few moments,” he said grudgingly.  
Aragorn glanced idly around the glade Legolas had brought him to after the ceremony. He’d had little chance to appreciate its beauty before and let his eyes dwell on the delicate white blossoms among the wild grasses and tiny blue stars that flowered against the emerald moss. Any moment, the light would fade completely, but just now, it hung suspended in the cool air like motes of diamond dust. Everything was limned in brightness, glowing like an afterimage branded on the eyelids. The king knew he would never forget this moment and felt a pang of the inherent sadness of passing time. This remarkable being that he loved so much would never grow old in the same way that he would, would never age and die. Long after Aragorn II was dust, Legolas of Mirkwood would walk this Middle-Earth.  
“I have a notion to go roving,” the King of Gondor said, as he had many times in the past seven years.  
“Are you thinking on your mortality again?”  
“You know me too well. When I have no more secrets, you will find me boring.”  
“Never could you bore me and if you wish to make a journey, I will go with you.”  
“Arwen and Boromir’s son is seven and their daughters are five, three and two years of age. I think that is sufficient supply of heirs for Gondor.”  
“For Gondor, Ithilien, Lebennin and Anorien.”  
“Aye, Lord Boromir and his Lady have not failed me in that regard… or any other. They have faithfully honored the trust I place in them. Gondor’s throne and her borders are secure and her highways are safe to travel. It was a brilliant idea of Faramir’s to reinstate the Rangers to patrol the land with teams of Trackers. I see the bonds between our Races growing stronger and it gladdens my heart.”  
Legolas propped himself on an elbow to look into Aragorn’s eyes. “You are a good king,” he said.  
“I wish my mother could have been here.” Aragorn reached up to tuck a strand of starlight hair behind a pointed ear.  
“She too believes that you rule well. Has she not written of her pride in many letters to you?”  
“Aye, but she has been traveling for a long time.”  
“She was caged for a long time.”  
“True.” Aragorn sighed. “I should learn to be content with what is on my table and not wish for what is in the marketplace.”  
Incomprehension took up a tuck between the Elf’s brows. “What marketplace?”  
“It is only a saying such as Men use.”  
“I have found that Men have their uses.”  
“I am glad you found a use for this one.” Aragorn touched Legolas’s smooth cheek in a tender caress.  
“It is so strange to think that hate brought us together and gave me the great love of my life.”  
“Cease this talk or you will make your king weep.”  
“I will make you weep tears of joy,” the Elf vowed. “Be sure you tell me when you are fit for love-play.”  
Aragorn chuckled softly, rubbing his new beard against the prince’s neck. “The very moment I am able, you will surely know it.”  
Legolas shifted slightly, throwing a leg over the man’s hip. “Now it is certain that I will,” he said, claiming Aragorn’s arousal once more. “Ah, cruel one, you have kept a secret from me!”  
“You know your slightest touch is enough to rouse me.”  
“Flattering mortal,” Legolas smiled as he drew the ring of his thumb and forefinger slowly up Aragorn’s shaft, bunching the foreskin over the tip. Drawing the velvet cloak away, the Sindar bent his head to dip his tongue into the folded well of flesh he’d made.  
Aragorn groaned deep in his chest as Legolas swirled his tongue around the sensitive head. “No sorcerer’s spell could improve upon this pleasure,” he said breathlessly.  
“I am a very good lover,” the Elf stated without a trace of boastfulness.  
“You are indeed, but that is not the only reason you please me. Another might offer me the same caress, but unless were your hands on my flesh, the pleasure would be pale and small. You touch me with love and a wish to please me. I know you feel lust, that much about Elves you have taught me, but I also know that you love me for you have said so and even plighted your troth.”  
“Which we have hardly begun to celebrate properly,” Legolas hinted.  
“I have decided where I wish to go.”  
The Elf’s hand went still on the king’s staff. “Now?”  
“No, you Sindarin savage, after our visit to Mirkwood is over.”  
“Tell me,” Legolas coaxed, drawing a fingernail up the underside of the king’s shaft.  
Aragorn swallowed. “I should like to visit our comrades and the monarchs of the realms that border Gondor. What say you, Prince?’  
“Lead and I shall follow.”  
“Do you speak from loyalty or a desire to keep my backside in sight?”  
“Both.” Legolas’s rare grin made half-moons of his eyes. “It is a fine view to your rear.”  
Aragorn touched his forehead to the Elf’s. “I am fortunate to have you at my back.”  
“You are not fortunate; you are worthy.”  
Aragorn gazed long into the depths of his husband’s eyes and Legolas gazed back in perfect communion, content simply to be alive and together. Sometime soon, they would rise and resume their lives, but for now, the world could wait.  
The End


End file.
